


The Nightingale Prince

by Bamf_babe



Series: Nightingale Verse [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Amnesia, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Found Family, Identity Porn, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Secret Identity, Witcher Biology (The Witcher), Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Worldbuilding, and family building, come on I know we all wanted someone to kick Stregobor's ass, how am I the only author to write Renfri/Deidre, it's a crime I tell u, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 133,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamf_babe/pseuds/Bamf_babe
Summary: Jaskier doesn’t remember anything before waking up in Blaviken, hearing tales of a Butcher. He has scars he can’t explain and reflexes he can’t control, but he’s human. Absolutely, Positively, 100% human.At least, that's what he tells himself.But how long can he outrun his past before it comes back to haunt him, golden eyes and all?_The Nightingale Prince was a Witcher feared across the continent and known for rescuing girls cursed by the Black Sun, including one particular Shrike. Until he went missing over a decade ago. Now there is only Jaskier, a bard. Armed with half a memory, a mage and a witcher at his side,  Jaskier will have to discover his past in order to survive his future.
Relationships: Filavandrel aén Fidháil/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Renfri | Shrike/Deidre Ademeyn
Series: Nightingale Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898548
Comments: 502
Kudos: 1594
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian Alfred Pankratz never asked to be a Witcher but he's going to make the best of it.

Julian lunged, his sword crashing into his  opponent’s with  a ringing clang of metal on metal . There was no possibility he would  be able to physically overpower the other boy, so he rolled away and ducked under the other’s swing before kicking his opponent’s leg out from under him. The other boy got up, mad with fury , before charging at Julian.  He let out a small yelp as he threw himself to the side. Julian held his sword up in front of himself as he lay on the ground, barely catching the other’s blade. Parry, thrust, lunge, parry. God, this was exhausting. Julian caught the eye of his teacher Jerome, trying to signal that he needed a little help please and instead Jerome took it as a sign for more of a challenge. 

“Coën,” Jerome said, “get into the ring. I want you and Alucard flanking Julian. You are reaching a point in your training where being able to fight against multiple opponents is key.”

Julian just about left the arena. He was not nearly skilled enough to take on both Alucard and  Coën . If this was about him telling off  Keldar during lessons yesterday he would prostrate himself on his knees in apology. If Julian had any idea his little comments would have gotten him in this much trouble he wouldn’t have bothered. And just in time for these thoughts to have gone through his head,  Coën was slashing towards his left. Alright, breathe Julian.  He k n ew if he could stop them from  cornering  him on each  side, he might just survive this.  Julian slowly made his way to the stone wall in the yard, avoiding the strikes of the other  boys’ swords with sheer, dumb luck. He was extremely blessed  that  Coën and Alucard weren’t used to working together and would take turns striking at him instead of both at once. Julian knew the other boys thought he was cornered. 

Then, he suddenly threw his sword behind  Coën and Alucard into the field, turned towards the wall, and began running right at the other two.  The other two apprentices rapidly ducked his makeshift javelin.  For a second, Alucard looked too confused to move, however, Coën was faster and immediately began following him.  W hat Julian lacked in strength he made up for in speed and by the time  Coën reached him Julian was already running up the wall and doing a flip right over the heads of the other two boys. He landed on the ground back in the field and grabbed his sword. He did not wait for the other two to turn around and catch him. He began running towards the weapons rack and turned it over just as the two boys reached him. 

Swords, shields, maces, and other equipment began cascading  to the grassy ground in a waterfall of weaponry. The clanking of metal and the general mess caused by this  minor disaster  caused the other two to back up and gave Julian enough time to run again to the other end of the field. Fuck, he did not want to  cross swords with these boys. 

“Julian! Stop running and fight  god damnit .” Jerome yelled out. 

Julian made a sudden turn around just in time to catch Alucard’s sword. With a miracle, Julian  might have continued to fight off Alucard but  unfortunately Coën , slower but stronger,  soon caught up. As Julian went to parry a thrust of Alucard’s near his thigh,  Coën sliced towards his arm, and Julian was left completely open.  Coën’s sword sliced right through his leather training armor and Julian let out a cry. 

“Stop!” commanded Jerome. “ Alright boys let’s talk strategy here. Julian, how did you handle having two opponents?”

“Cowardly.” scoffed Alucard to Julian’s left. Julian glared at him as he took a piece of cloth Jerome handed over and tied it in a piece-meal bandage around his arm. It was not even deep enough to require stitches so he would just need something to stem the bleeding until the debrief was over and he could head to the infirmary to get some disinfectant. 

Coën laughed  good-naturedly , “Come on Alucard, he was n' t half-bad. Don’t think I didn’t see your mouth drop when he leap t over our heads .”

“I don’t know if what I did could be called fighting so much as cleverly attempting to run away,” Julian said. 

Jerome shook his head with a small laugh, “Rather  humbler than I have heard from you Julian. It is important to understand your own flaws, however, once you had to face both boys head on you did not even consider adjusting your strategy. You faced one at a time as if they would line up and let you fight them one-at-a-time. Once both Alucard and  Coën were next to you, the first swing caught you out. Consider that next time. Adjust your stance to be more offensive than defensive and drive your  opponents back so they cannot drive you into a corner.” 

Jerome paused, “Well, unless you are planning on flipping right over their heads. That was a truly inspired move.”  H e then looked over to  Coën .

“And you! I was expecting you to take  Julian out in the first five  seconds but it took you almost two minutes. I am shocked at both of you. Most of your issues stemmed from the fact that you did not attack as a team but merely as two people fighting the same object. If you had worked in tandem instead of apart this fight would have been over much quicker.”

“Jerome,” Alucard said, “How often would we even be working with another person on the path? Isn’t it much more likely for us to be  alone? ”

“While most of the time you would be alone, it is not uncommon to have help from either mages, knights, or even an intrepid villager. You should know how to work with a team in case the situation ever arises. We can study all of this later. I’m sure Keldar has books of theory and strategy he just cannot wait to share with you.”

Coën sighed, “Fantastic, Keldar is here to bring true joy to the masses.”

Jerome laughed, “If anyone were to find peace in old textbooks it would be Julian out of your lot. He’s most likely already gunning for Keldar’s spot as a librarian. How goes plotting Old Keldar’s demise Julian?”

Julian laughed as Jerome ruffled his hair, “Oh, I don’t know, it is hard to put poison in a soup that already tastes as such.”

The four of them headed towards the door back into the keep when Jerom stopped Julian before letting him in. 

“Not yet, don’t you have...something to clean up?” He glanced surreptitiously at the overturned weapons rack. 

Julian gave a heavy sigh as he marched over the weapons rack.

“Once I am finished I will be awaiting my ready-made meal, Jerome!” He shouted at the Witcher as he pushed it back upright. 

“Do the crime take the time boy!” His mentor yelled back as he disappeared into the keep. 

Once more, Julian was upset at his lack of strength which characterized the Witchers who had undergone the trials. The assorted maces, shields, swords, and other terribly pointed weapons were quite heavy. Granted, Julian would not be taking the trials for at least another year as he was only 11 years old. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz assumed he must have been some sort of noble by birth, because who else could have such a long-winded and exhaustive name. He was already considering alternatives and really only used the first name given to him by his birth parents due to a lack of other options. Once he found a new name that suited him he could shed the shroud of the Pankratz name like a snake sheds his skin. Of course, he did not know much about his past, most of the boys at Kaer Seren had mysterious or unknown pasts. Jerome Moreau was likely one of the only boys at the keep who even knew his birth father and while Jerome did not talk about it, ever, Julian knew their relationship was nonexistent. 

Growing up in Kaer Seren was a new type of harshness. The home of the Griffin Witcher's was isolated from any nearby village and high up in the mountains just above the sea. The northern continent became cold in the winter as well so the snow often  fell heavy. Julian was too soft to be Witcher in many ways. He was more drawn to the library than the training field and mostly survived through luck and ingenuity. He did not have the strength of the other boys and knew most of the older Witchers did not bet on him surviving the trials. However, Julian had made The Choice around a year ago and there was no turning back now. Even at this young age, he was thrust into the training a Witcher apprentice needed for the trials. He had the temperament but not necessarily the physical stamina necessary to survive. That was fine with Julian. He was perfectly content simply learning herbalism, monster lore, and enduring his sword lessons until the day he would likely die.

Even with the oppressive threat of the trials hanging over his head, Julian had existed in contentment at Kaer Seren where the air always smells slightly of the sea nearby and the mountain air kept the sky clear and bright. Jerome was a fantastic mentor and Kalder an interesting if a rigorous teacher. They were the only two Witchers to stay at the keep year-round. Kalder due to age and Jerome due to severe injuries that prevented him from being on the path. He had a terrible limp in his left leg and scars zig-zagging across his entire torso. Jerome never discussed where they came from, Julian had suspicions Jerome’s father was involved based on the words he had heard tumbling out of Jerome's mouth when the ale flowed too freely. 

Julian knew there was no other life path he would be able to take anyway. Even if he survived the  trials, he would never be able to fit in among humans. The path would turn him dark and unwelcome, and he would always be an outsider looking in. That is why he was so lucky to have an unusual if stable family here at Kaer Seren. Griffins stood together, and always protected others even at a cost to themselves. It was simply the way. 

He finished lugging the weapons back onto the rack and dusted off his hands a bit on his tunic before turning and heading towards the infirmary before going to dinner. He disinfected and bandaged the wound on his  arm . Luckily, it did not seem like it would take more than a week to scab and heal over. Still, Julian both l o nged and dreaded for his possible future where cuts like this would not be a problem at all. He headed into the dining hall where he saw Jerome,  Keldar , and the other boys. There were seven of them total, the other four having been stuck in lessons with  Keldar while Julian,  Coën , and Alucard got a little bit of hands-on training. Of course, this was only for today as the next day was bound to be plenty of lessons with the other boys. 

Julian certainly had an interesting relationship with Keldar, the old Witcher being more interested in his magic and books than anything else and teaching the next generations was more of a side-effect of his position than anything else. For boys like Julian who were more interested in the lore than fighting, well, Keldar saw him as a nuisance but a particularly well-read one. Julian still had no idea if Keldar liked him due to his enjoyment of literature or hated him due to him being underfoot more often than not. Still, Julian had lots of free time and instead of spending it in sparring practice, he would rather spend it in the vast library. 

“Julian!” Coën shouted, catching his attention, “Come over here before there’s nothing left!”

While  Coën had a joking note to his voice, Julian noticed there really wasn't much left as he had spent more time in the infirmary than he expected. Of course, the food was nothing fantastic. After making The Choice, Julian and all the others were expected to follow a diet of assorted mosses, mushrooms, and herbs.  I t was not too  awful when it got made into a soup. The atmosphere of the room felt comfortable as Julian let the  conversation  wash over him as the other boys  talked and often yelled at each other. Always a loud and abrasive personality, Julian pushed in with his two pence on every topic offered. 

“You should have seen the move Julian pulled today!” Alucard said, the sting of the match earlier having softened. “He,  leapt over our heads like he had some time of springs attached !”

The other boys oohed and ahhed just the right amount and Julian, very proud of this accomplishment jumped in, “Alucard’s mouth opened like a fish, and him and Coën were so shocked that it gave me enough time to run right across the field!”

“Well, it’s no sword fight, but Keldar mentioned something rather interesting in lessons today,” Matthias, a boy the same age as Julian said. 

“What?” Coën asked, clearly invested. 

“Magic” Matthias responded “He said since most of us are gearing up for the trials we are about to begin learning magic.”

“Really?” Julian shouted, looking over at Keldar himself. He had to strain his body to get a good look at the man and most of his torso was splayed over the table, “We finally get to learn magic?”

Keldar sighed as if the question itself was an effort to hear and grunted in a way that Julian interpreted as, ‘Yes Julian, we are learning magic you incessant nuisance’. Well, maybe, Julian interpreted Keldar’s grunts through a lens of poetic license. The rest of the meal had elevated energy as every boy was excited to finally be learning magic. Jerome gave his thoughts and even made a show of using a few signs to show off a bit for the young boys. However, Keldar put a stop to it once Jerome put a little too much power into his Igni and lit a table on fire. 

They were all shuffled off to bed by the older  Witchers and even though they were warned of an early morning for training before all seven of them were to report to  Keldar for lessons, they kept up the conversation in low tones. In many ways, they were lucky to have seven boys make it through The Choice. Beyond the diet alone, the physical and mental training was a difficult burden on a group of young boys, and Julian would not soon forget Samuel, who passed away last winter due to liver failure. Still, most of the boys were kind to each other and there was a real feeling of camaraderie between them. Julian ended up shuffling over to Alucard’s bed as was a habit of his as the older boy pulled out a lute. It was a gift leftover from Alucard’s parents after he was orphaned at a young age and brought to Griffin keep. His father was apparently a traveling bard and Alucard had taught himself a fair amount of musical theory and was a rather good lute player. 

After only a few bribes, Julian had found himself a teacher. He was nowhere near Alucard’s level of  talent , but he was a quick study and was able to play simple melodies under his friend’s instruction. Alucard was finished tuning and was playing a soft melody. This late at night with some of the other boys trying to sleep, well, playing anything loud or upbeat would just be asking for someone to try and shut you up. Not a great way to make friends. Julian just watched, mesmerized, as Alucard’s fingers pressed down on the fretboard, weaving together a soft and gentle song. It seemed sadder than others he had heard, but perhaps that was just due to the slower nature of the song. Julian ended up falling asleep on Alucard’s bed, drifting off to the music. 

The next morning, they all tumbled out of bed,  and  were pushed on a run through the woods, and set up on the obstacle course built around the keep. Now, while Julian might not have loved  fighting he did enjoy the course. He loved his acrobatics, although he was  told off numerous times for making his movements flashier and showier than necessary. Jerome would ask if he was training to be a performer or a  W itcher. Still, Julian always kept little flourishes to his form, because in many ways he viewed every battle as a performance.  The difference was that every battle was a performance where his life was on the line. 

Everyone ran through the motions of training, but even Jerome could tell no one’s heart was in it and just about every boy, even the ones far more obsessed with training than knowledge like Coën, was beyond ecstatic to finally learn about magic. Jerome ended up dismissing them early, sending them off to the classroom where Keldar was already waiting at the head. He seemed to suspect Jerome would send them in early and already had tomes opened in front of him to reference. 

“Sit down,” he commanded everyone. Julian could feel the excitement growing. When Keldar began speaking, it was with a low, deep voice speaking at a pace that clearly conveyed the message of  _ listen  _ . 

“Now, before we begin any...practical lessons we need to have an understanding of what exactly magic is. There are multiple scholarly definitions of the term magic. I could cite them all, pointing out their various inconsistencies and pondering which should be considered most correct, but I will not. Instead, I will borrow the words I heard from my own teacher when I was a young and inexperienced Witcher and put forth a similar question.

Magic is oftentimes referred to as "the Art" This is no coincidence. Magic is perceived by many as an elite discipline requiring artistry and talent, and indeed very few possess the immense creative abilities needed to wield it. Those with magical talent can use it to create things of awe and beauty- wonders without which the world would certainly be a much more miserable place. Therefore, those who name magic a beautiful blessing, brought forth into this world by the Conjunction of the Spheres, are in a sense correct.

Magic has also been called chaos incarnate: a primal, dangerous force, merciless and destructive. In the hands of the unwary it becomes a key that can open the forbidden door, behind which lies ruin and destruction. Therefore, those who say that magic is a curse born of chaos during the Conjunction of the Spheres that will doom this world are also correct.

Finally, according to others, magic is science-that is, knowledge that can only be acquired through extensive study, discipline, and hard work. In this view, magic is progress. It is a process of constant advancement initiated during the Conjunction of the Spheres which brings development, eliminates the ailments of this world, provides answers to the questions that plague mankind, broadens minds, and introduces innovation. It is therefore also correct to say that magic is its own particular science.

In the end, magic is all three of the above. It is Art, Chaos, and Science: a blessing, a curse, and progress. It all depends on who calls upon it, and for what purpose.

Magic stems from nature. It is in the earth we walk upon, in the fire burning in its heart, in the air we breathe, and in the water which brings life and which flows within us. If you happen to be gifted with a particular talent, all you need to do is reach out your hand and grasp the magic all around you.

When you all made The Choice, you opened yourselves up to the acceptance of Chaos and began the first irreparable steps to becoming a Witcher. Being an apprentice is not simply a title. Before undertaking the trials who will learn the basics of magic and grasp an understanding of the Chaos you will be working with. We are Witchers, Griffins, protectors, and hunters. We work alongside chaos and accept its balance and flaws. It will not solve our problems and to assume we can control it is to assume incorrectly. We do not control Chaos, rather, it lets us use its power. Never forget that magic above all else is a gift.”

Here,  Keldar took a long look over all  the boys , impressing the importance o f his words . “And such as with any gift, this too can be taken away.”

A heavy silence filled the air when he was done speaking. There was a sense that if anyone were to so much as cough, the strange feeling that had overtaken the room would be broken. It was as if Keldar himself had cast a spell over everyone with the impact his words gave. 

“With this in mind, we will begin the study of the simplistic battle magic Witchers employ in combat. While we can access more powerful spells, they would take far too long and are often not only difficult but tiresome to employ directly in battle. We are going to begin by looking at mind magic, possibly the easiest branch of magic to connect with as it simply is the notice of pushing your mental processes outward. Let’s look at the most simple sign you will use in battle. Aard.” 

With this  Keldar held out his hand and splayed his finger s apart, then slowly he bent his middle finger downward. 

“This is the motion we are going to be using, however, in the interest of keeping the keep intact, this particular lesson will be moved outside.”

Julian practically leaped out of his chair alongside every other boy and followed behind Keldar as they made their way into the woods. Keldar led them to a clearing large enough to house all of them and Julian noticed at some point Jerome had followed them, surely to help with damage control. Keldar again demonstrated the symbol for Aard and began talking. 

“Now, if it were as easy as simply moving a finger, every peasant would be throwing their neighbors around for every perceived misfortune. Not only does this require the connection to Chaos you were all granted when you made  T h e  C hoice, this requires willpower and precision. It may not be obvious but even the angle of your finger will impact the power and strength of the spell. At its base, Aard uses your strength of  will to create a pushing force. It can be as light as a breeze,” here,  Keldar pushed out his hand with his finger at only the smallest of angles, and there was a gentle push in the air that shook the leaves on a nearby tree, “or powerful to stun an enemy,” and now  Keldar flicked his hand out in a stronger, sharper motion with his middle finger bent at a downward angle. The tree uprooted itself and fell to the ground with a crashing sound. “Try attempting the sign yourself, although I implore all of you to avoid throwing each other about.”

Julian watched as the others began trying to feel for the flow of Chaos within themselves. It was easier, in the woods, with a closer connection to nature. Jerome and Keldar both looked on, making their way over to different boys and correcting their form. Julian moved his hand and formed the sign. He took a breath in and imagined himself as a conduit taking in the energy around him. He gathered in his breath and thought about how he felt when he pushed another boy away or tried to close a particularly heavy door. He opened his eyes and shoved that energy out of his hand. 

It was a strange feeling, like water running down his arm and then when he felt it reach his hand it seemed to spread out among every finger and when he left Julian felt its form change from simply energy to a push. It was as if the Chaos energy did not have a form until it encountered the sign and knew the correct shape to take. 

Julian watched a small telekinetic shove leave his body and he caused the ground in front of him to shake just a bit. It was not a particularly powerful example, but Julian was proud of himself for having the magic work. He felt a sense of elation and excitement. 

“Congratulations Julian!” Jerome said, coming to stand behind him, “I would have guessed at a magic affinity based on your  interests, but this is fantastic.”

Julian smiled, knowing that this was exactly what he was meant to be doing. 

The years at Kaer Seren passed quickly. Once magic was introduced to the equation, all the boys understood that this was the final stage of learning before the trials truly began. Some, like Coën, took this as a chance to learn the Witcher signs as rapidly as possible and perfect them. He could use them all with ease and was now one of the most formidable in sparring practice and training. Others, such as Matthias became more aggressive as their training progressed. He could not have told you whether it was the diet or the training but many of the boys seemed more instinct than intelligence these days, only looking forward to the next skill they could learn. Julian took it as an opportunity to delve into the meaning of chaos. He would learn a sign and then research its properties and meanings. 

The Witcher way of magic was more adjacent to Elven learning than mage learning. Mages would create the layout of the magic they wanted to produce and then twist the Chaos they summoned to fit that shape. Witchers, however, would summon the Chaos first and then nudge the magic into the outcome they desired. It differed in the method of summoning. Where a mage’s magic would be attuned to them from the moment it enters their world, a Witcher’s magic wouldn’t be solidified until it passed through their signs. 

Julian took an interest in  telempathy after he learned  Axii . He remembered the lesson well.  Keldar had shown them the sign, holding down your pinky and ring finger as you moved your hand inward, but he mentioned that the strength of  Axii varied and the effect was simple to shake off. However, Julian had been doing some, er, supplemental reading so to speak and had found the hate-reflecting sign which was in the same family of magic as  Axii . Suddenly, the knowledge began to piece together. If there was a sign that could calm and a sign that could reflect hate, theoretically there ought to be signs for every emotional state and he could then tap into Witcher  telempathy where he could manipulate and control emotions. 

The books that contained further signs of  telempathy were hidden deep in the library and Julian wouldn’t have access to them until he was a  fully fledged Witcher. It was an annoyance, but no matter how many hours Julian spent  bugging Kedlar about it in the library, th e stubborn old man wouldn’t budge on the subject. So, for the present moment, Julian only knew the two  telempathy signs until he could get his hands on a few more books. 

Julian knew the trials were to be soon. He was always 12 years old and he was one of the younger boys of his year. Coën was almost 14. It was the Spring months and once again the only Witchers at the keep who were not apprentices were Jerome and Keldar. The others always left on the path, but this year felt different. Very few of the other Witchers had entertained the apprentices during the Winter and had distanced themselves in conversation. The last time this occurred Julian was 9 years old and the last group had undergone the Trials. Only one boy out of the 8 remaining after the choice had survived. 

He was terrified but knew that there was not only no turning back, but that his doubt could cost him his very life in the trials. One late night, Julian had the foreboding feeling that the Trials were about to happen in the coming week. Jerome and  Keldar had been down in the alchemical rooms almost every night, seemingly preparing the grasses. Julian found himself drawn to the library where  Keldar sat among his books. Full of nervous energy he sat down next to the man and asked him about the topic of  telempathy to ward his mind  off of his fears. The old Witcher paused and gave him a look that seemed to pierce right into his skull. Old  Keldar looked tired. For once, he looked the centuries of age he  had and his shoulders held the line of severe exhaustion. He seemed to debate with himself a moment and then  came to a conclusion and began talking to Julian . 

“Telempathy is a form of magic Witchers can practice. However, it fell out of use decades ago for most schools. It is a subtle form of magic based around the sharing and reflecting of emotions. It has little use in combat so most Witchers do not bother to learn it.”

“Does that mean there is a sign for every emotion?” Julian asked, “I found the hate-reflecting sign in the Liber  Tenebrarum but I couldn’t find information on any others. You said I could read more when I became a full Witcher. I want to know now. I know the trials are happening soon. I will either die or become a Witcher. What would it hurt to  tell me? ”

Keldar paused for a brief moment and then headed off to a corner of the library and disappeared among the stacks. When he came back to the small table he and Julian sat at, he held an old book. It was not a particularly large book and its spine was cracked and looked in favor of a good rebinding. The cover was a dark green with an imprint of a Griffin medallion in its cover. He set the book down in front of Julian. 

“This, Julian,” Keldar said, “is the Grimoire of Kaer Seren. As you may remember from your lessons on the different schools of Witchers, us Griffins are particularly adept at magic. Shockingly, most Witchers are not able to memorize all the signs before the trials even begin like you boys. However, our magic goes above the standard five signs and while we do not always employ it, we have powerful magic in our Keep.”

Here, Keldar opened the book to a page depicting Axii, however, instead of simply showing the sign and its uses, it seemingly branched out into a variety of signs showing a complex range of emotions and variations. 

“Axii is the most basic of a Witcher’s telempathy. Oftentimes, it is all the magic a good Witcher needs to temporarily disable their opponents. The sign can be broken down into many different varieties. Take, for instance, the hate reflecting sign. This is truly multipurpose emotional reflection magic that can rebound the emotions of your opponents back onto themselves, possibly causing crippling psionic damage, but hate is the easiest emotion to grasp. It is simply moving the Axii sign in the opposite direction facing down so instead of forming an outward motion towards your opponent, you are instead creating a pushing motion back towards them. However, if you are not trying to create reflection but rather compel a different emotion or even manifest your own emotions for your opponents it is simply a matter of adjusting your Axii. For sleep instead of suggestion you would use Axii which is a matter of adjusting your hand so instead of sweeping in you create a box shape.”

Keldar demonstrated the adjustments to the signs here, not putting any power behind them. Julian was beyond fascinated. This was a whole new branch of sign magic that most Witchers never bothered to learn. He tried to look at the pages of the book and see the notes written around the diagrams of the signs, but noticed that it was written in Elder. He sighed in disappointment. 

“Why isn’t any of this part of our standard lessons?” Julian questioned, 

“As I said, this is not particularly helpful in battle. Some schools such as the Vipers learn a lot of this telempathy as it is useful in their line of work, deceit and deception is their lifeblood. However, for most of us it is simply more useful to focus on what will save your lives. That is not all that is contained in this grimoire. We have sections on aeromancy derived from the wind-magics of Aard and even the forbidden magics of Goetia and necromancy. While I do not often agree with the brotherhood of sorcerers, their banning of those forms of magic is something we can agree to. Their hypocrisy would demand we give them this knowledge so that they might keep it safe but I know that there are particularly enterprising mages out there who would desire this knowledge for their own gain.”

Julian understood at this moment the gift he was being given. This was a powerful book, holding some of the most forbidden secrets of demonology and necromancy. Possibly, some of the only sources left in the world on the subject. He was aware of just how much the Mages disliked the Witchers, particularly Griffins for ‘withholding’ their knowledge of magic. Mage magic was more powerful than a Witcher’s magic but it took longer to cast and oftentimes cast terrible prices upon its user. Currently, there were even rumblings of the Elven kingdoms being upset over how the mages were using the knowledge of magic the Elves had gifted to them a few centuries ago. Unlike the Witchers, the Elven kingdoms had offered the Brotherhood of Sorcerers full reign over their knowledge but now the mages were creating rituals the Elves saw as a bastardization of Chaos itself. While Julian was not as knowledgeable on the politics of the continent as others, he was observant and listened carefully to the stories wintering Witcher brought with them when they stayed at the keep. Secretly, Julian was grateful Witchers stayed out of these magic disputes. 

Keldar looked at Julian, “While you do not have the physical prowess of many of your classmates, your interest in magic is unparalleled so I hope that not only will you survive the trials but that you will continue in your study of magic. I have been looking for a successor for far too long.”

“Tha-thank you.” Julian said, “I will do my best.”

“On Melitele’s name, I hope so. Prepare for tomorrow” With that Keldar closed the book and left for whatever corner of the library he had come from. Julian wondered at that moment how many children Keldar had seen die. Becoming a Witcher was no easy task and while their training allowed them to protect people across the continent their legacies were built on the deaths of children. There were mass graves, Julian knew, built around the keep. Pyres where they could burn the bodies of the dead. The others did not murder them on purpose, it was simply the nature of the grasses, but still, would Julian end there in those graves with the other failures of the griffin school? How many times had Keldar seen a spark of inspiration in another boy just like him only to watch as he fell victim to the trials? 

The words Keldar said caught up to Julian,  _ tomorrow  _ . He felt his mouth dry up as this knowledge began to slam into his brain again and again.  _ Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.  _ He had one night left before his destiny would be forever decided. Logically, he knew it would always be coming. Once you made the choice and officially became a Witcher apprentice you would have to undergo the trials. Otherwise, the acceptance of Chaos and diet would kill you without mutating your body in the way the trials did. There was a reason there were no Witcher apprentices who lived into adulthood. You died an apprentice or became a Witcher. Oh god, the others. This might be the last night he would see most of them. Or, even worse, this would be last night they would see him. 

Julian walked out of the library with shaking legs. He couldn’t tell the others and subject them to this horrifying spiral. There was a reason Jerome and Keldar never told them the exact date. Once he got to his bed he tried to sleep but he could not. He attempted to employ the meditation techniques they had learned just the basics of, but with a human heart and hormones there was only so much he could accomplish. He ended up drifting off into an uneasy sleep and too soon he heard Jerome enter the room. He had a solemn look on his normally cheery face. 

“It’s time boys,” he said. Nothing else, no morning quips or tangents or stories. This was it. The others knew it too. They followed him down into the alchemical rooms of Kaer Seren where seven tables were set up in a large room. It looked, well, barbaric. There were ropes on the tables, possibly cots and contraptions next to them which held bags heavy with the grasses. There were needles and the smell was already overwhelming. Julian felt his breath coming in small gasps. 

His whole life, the trials had seemed so far away, so vague. He understood logically that most of these boys would die but he was not prepared for the reality. What did it mean for his whole life to lead this moment where it was likely that his lungs would stop moving and his heart would cease its  beating. Why would the others allow themselves to live like this, why did he ever make The Choice? Gods, this was horrifying. This was not a home, not a family, this was a cult. They were lambs led to the slaughter, unthinkingly given a place to sleep, learn, and grow, and then all their lives cut short. He looked around and saw that he was not the only one having similar thoughts. In fact, Alucard was shaking head to toe, and Jerome had to help him into the table. Each boy sat there on those tables, waiting for their limbs to be tied down. No one ran,  no once moved. They all knew that no matter how terrifying this was, they could not escape it. Even if they ran, they would die due to the Chaos they accepted into their lives sooner rather than later. This path,  The P ath was the only way they had a hope of surviving. 

Julian felt Keldar tie his hands down to the table and felt the needle being injected into his veins he watched as the grasses moved into him and although it did not make logical sense, it felt like a quiet fire was entering his veins. Keldar’s eyes were completely impassive, there was no emotion in his gaze and suddenly Julian remembered the words from a book brought up into the keep from the village. It mentioned Witchers. 

_ There is nothing more repulsive than these monsters that defy nature and are known by the name of Witcher, as they are the offspring of foul sorcery and witchcraft. They are unscrupulous scoundrels without conscience and virtue, veritable creatures from hell capable only of taking lives. Their eyes are dead and their emotions are long gone, rejected by whatever hellish process is used to create beasts such as these. Fear the Witchers, for they have no fear of themselves.  _

He had thought it propaganda at best. But now, he wonders, how can anyone other than a beast watch children die while looking on. What can justify this hellish existence? If he were to survive would he come out of this with his emotions scooped out of him? Would he lose the joy of a sunny day and the laughter of his brothers and even the sadness of a long winter? He tried to turn, to catch Keldar’s eye one more time in begging, pleading, but his world was lost in a feeling of fire. 

He had a few moments of lucidity. Sometimes, he knew more than felt, his body contorting, twisting, his skin growing cool and hot. Everything was burning, melting, reshaping, reforming. Was he breathing? Perhaps, he assumed. To live he would have to be breathing unless his very breath was another thing the trials would try and steal from him. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw shapes standing over the table. A silhouette in the pitch black. It began to move.  The twisting shadow moved towards him,  its shape spinning and writhing, forming into shapes that Julian couldn’t fully comprehend. It moved in shaking, twitching motions, here one minute and gone  the next. Once it came close to Julian, leaning over him, the tendrils twisted and the shape changed, becoming a man in fine noble clothes. He leaned over Julian, his mouth opening far too wide to be natural, his voice a nasally aristocratic drawl.

“This is what my bloodline had become?’” he laughed, “a Pankratz, destined to die here, in the mount ains hidden from all who could have known him. What did you amount to Julian? Nothing, nothing, nothing. When you die, no one will ever remember you were here, they will burn your body alongside the  others and you know as well as I  do they keep no records of dead apprentices.”

The being, possibly his father’s , mouth  opened and streams of black mucus began to pour out of his mouth, covering Julian in the disgusting gunk, and Julian couldn’t help it, he tried, but he was not strong enough. He began violently vomiting. He strained his body against the ropes, seemingly thicker than when he had begun the trials. There were now layers upon layers of rope tying him down, the first ropes having become frayed in many places. He believed what he was seeing was real. His father was gone. Or the mimicry that hovered over him as he died. 

Julian felt his body settle against a pool of feverish sweat and vomit that had collected under his lower back. He moved and twisted, trying to rid himself of the awful feeling, amplified more than he could ever have thought. Every touch hurt, it hurt far too much. He tried to breathe but the smell of the room invaded his nostrils and it hurt, it hurt far too much. Every nerve ending was on fire and Julian could not imagine a pain more fierce. He tried to look up at the ceiling but saw nothing but black, black, black. He tried to sob but his voice seemingly wouldn’t work, his throat hurt like he had already been screaming but he hadn’t, he didn’t remember, when did he last drink water or food? He let out painful gasps devoid of any kind of noise and suddenly his throat opened up and he moaned a low sound. It began to transform into a scream and it hurt, Julian could feel his throat tearing, ripping apart. It rose into a high pitch that seemed to cause the table to break and the floor to crack, but no. There was no give from the ropes and the table still held him down. The cracks and breaks were all in his head and Julian kept on screaming in a hoarse voice. He screamed because it was the only sound louder than sobbing. 

He lost time again. Th en , when he woke up there were no shadows dancing at the edge of his vision, every part of his body was in  pain but he could turn his head. He could see the room in the soft green glow of the grasses and various potions held in glass containers on the walls. He turned his head and in the  glow he saw Alucard. Gods, he hoped he didn’t look as bad as the other boy. His eyes had a glassy gaze, his hands moved, he clutched at clothing that wasn’t there, or brandished them in the air as if desirous of catching a quill. His breathing grew loud and hoarse; sweat cold, clammy, and malodorous appeared on his skin. His nose began to bleed, coughing turned to vomit. Julian watched as Alucard’s body shook with vomit almost leaking out of him, his body not even strong enough to fully convulse. He began to  choke and his breathing became heavy. Finally, he stopped moving and their eyes caught. Julian stared into his friend’s eyes as the light slowly drained out of them, and though they did not close he could see them empty of all life. Julian could not  move, he could not do anything at all. 

Julian kept on staring at the dead body, frozen. Then, the entire world seemed to turn into slow motion. Julian was frightfully aware of every inch of his own flesh and what exactly it was doing. He felt his heartbeat, and with every pump of blood through his veins he felt his heart slow down, down, down. His pulse was slow, firm, quiet, steady. He gasped as his eyes receded into tiny pinpricks and he turned towards the ceiling. Julian knew, he just knew deep within his bones that the trials of the grasses were over. He could feel his body moving fully under his own will again. 

Every sight and sound was so strong. He could hear a few shaky breathes from other boys in the room, he could feel the texture of the ropes binding him. He tried to talk but then a shadow overtook his vision and Julian started, was it the shade of his father, back to taunt him. But no, it was Jerome who smiled as he looked at Julian and while he could remember the days when those smiles felt comforting, honestly Julian just felt a little sick. The ropes were cut and Julian sat up, his muscles were incredibly weak and he just about collapsed the moment he was upright. 

He looked down at himself and saw a disgusting mixture of vomit, piss, sweat, and shit covering him. He was led in this state to a side room where a shallow pool of water sat. Jerome stripped the clothes off of him and helped him into the pool where Julian just lay, catching his bearings. He did not know how long he sat in that bath, laying there, unmoving. 

“Julian, Julian, are you with me?” Jerome’s voice came filtering in. 

Julian looked over, “Y-y-ye…” he tried to croak out but his throat was parched and his lips would not move without cracking. Jerome pushed a cup of water into his hands and Julian drank greedily. The water sloshed over the cup and back into the pool which was now full of filthy water. 

“I’m here, “ Julian said, his voice now present but soft and hoarse, “I’m alive, I made it.”

“You did Julian, I’m very impressed, now let’s get you cleaned up and into some clothes. You have more trials to make it through, however, I assure you the others will be much easier on you.”

With that, Jerome left the room and Julian noticed the pile of clothes on a chair next to the bath. He dressed on shaky limbs and then looked at himself in the mirror. He started. His eyes, his cornflower blue eyes now had pupils in the Witcher’s cat-eye slit shapes. He blinked and those eyes blinked back. He swore he heard his own eyes blink or was that the panic setting in once more? He looked away quickly just as Jerome entered the room again, the awful stench from the laboratory setting in once again and chasing him down. 

“Alright Julian, follow me to the Trial of the Dreams.”

Thank goodness, they did not enter back into the laboratory and instead went out into another side door and crossed the hall where there were comfortable beds instead of wooden tables and Julian saw Coën, eyes bandaged, seemingly sleeping on one of the beds. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was not the only one, another one survived. Keldar looked up as they entered a room and Julian felt more than saw the relief on the old man’s face. 

“Another?” He asked.

Jerome nodded and handed Julian over to Keldar before leaving the room, sure to see if there were any more survivors. Julian had the feeling he was the last one. Keldar took Julian by the shoulder and led him to one of the beds. 

“Julian, I want you to listen to me carefully,” Keldar said, “I am going to now give you the Trial of the Dreams, as the name implies you will fall asleep and the final mutations of becoming a Witcher will occur, it will be painful but no more than you have already faced. It is significantly shorter. You will be blindfolded for your own protection.”

He simply nodded, normally he would have fought back, but he had nothing left in him now. He felt Keldar wrap the heavy blindfold around his face and drank the potion pressed to his lips. He fell back into the sheets, falling asleep quickly and blessedly. 

Julian awoke to darkness. For a moment he panicked but then felt the heavy blindfold on him. His other senses were still giving him far too much information about the world around him but now he knew how to process it. He felt in control. He breathed in and calm was released. He looked around in the dark world for askance and heard heavy steps come towards him. 

“I need you to keep your eyes closed Julian,” came Keldar’s voice, soft. 

He kept his eyes tightly shut as the blindfold was removed and he felt light streaming in and slowly, so slowly, under Keldar’s instruction he began to open his eyes. It was twilight, Julian knew this but he could see the room in perfect clarity. When he tried to stand up, his body felt more dense and heavier in a way. When he walked, there was a solidness he did not know if he felt before. The room was empty, whatever had happened to Coën, he was not here now. There was a full length mirror at the edge of the room. Julian made his way over there and what he saw did not shock him but rather intrigued him. 

Nothing about him was different save for the emotions he could smell, sense, feel, something rolling off him into the room surrounding him and his eyes. When he looked into the mirror the blue was gone completely, leaving the yellow-gold cat eyes of a Witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I finally went and wrote a Witcher Jaskier fic. This time, instead of doing the whole, let's jump to Jaskier being cursed/glamoured/amnesia and meeting Geralt and being 'Jaskier the bard' let's do a chronological story that follows his time as a Witcher to how he ended up as as a Bard to how this all impacts canon. This is gonna be hella heavy on the worldbuilding and judging on the fact that the first chapter was 8k words and I didn't even leave Kaer Seren yet we are in for a RIDE. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian gets to go on a road trip after the destruction of everything he holds dear. Helpfully, he's gained a horse.

Julian was ready. After the trial of the mountains which was more a formality than anything else, he had been put into training in earnest. He learned to use his enhanced reflexes, stronger form, and senses to his advantage. Everything was more clear now and sharper. His magic was more refined, understanding the path it had to take sometimes before Julian himself knew what he had to do. He felt good. The older Witchers, the ones who had taken up the path, were kind and open when they came back to keep for winter. They shared stories, laughed, and drank alongside him. Keldar and Jerome were more open, treating him more like family than a boy destined to die. The keep felt warmer than it ever had, not just a place to die but a home. 

However, Julian could not fully rid himself of the fears he had kept as he had gone into the trials. Although it was three years later, and Julian was now fifteen and practically ready to head out on the path himself, he still remembered the abject fear he held going in and the dead bodies of the other boys. He ended up keeping Alucard’s lute when the possessions of the other boys had been taken and burned. He kept it and continued to play it even though he no longer had a teacher. 

In the end, Coën and he were the only ones to survive, not a shocking revelation but still a depressing one. Once Julian had gotten his feet under him, Coën was already training. It was as though the other boy was built to be a Witcher, he was faster, stronger and did not grieve as Julian had over the others. In fact, Coën had left on the path the year before. Granted, he was almost two years older than Julian and was 17, but Julian felt like he should be more ready to enter The Path than he was. 

He spent his days training now that he had enhanced skills and learned more magic than before. He was now intimately familiar with the grimoire and had in fact taken a semi-position as Keldar’s apprentice. He would not be able to remain at the keep forever, but he was happy here. This was not to last. 

The attack came suddenly and unexpectedly. It was in the middle of summer so there were only 3 real Witchers and around 10 apprentices at Kaer Seren when the mages attacked. It was late at night so everyone was sleeping and had no time to get any real gear on. The worst part was, it was not an attack that they could fight with their swords or weapons. It was a landslide of magical proportions. Julian bolted up in bed as he heard the rumblings, Chaos tugging on his arms. He felt the magic in each of the rolling boulders and when he looked out the window and saw a line of mages standing on the cliff, their arms raised as death literally came towards the Keep. Julian threw up a Heliotrop sign and created a shield that protected him as the rocks hit the wall. 

Damnnit! Julian knew the Brotherhood of Sorcerers was angrier than ever at the lack of knowledge the Griffins would part with. He heard about the rumblings of planned attacks on Witcher and the growing hatred of their kind across the continent. He should have seen this coming. Over the past few decades there had been growing propaganda against Witchers and their hellish forms and mutations. Most Witchers had figured the best way to combat it would be to simply continue helping people and following The Path. Even Julian himself had believed the words on the emotionless nature of Witchers before the Trials happened and he realized what a load of tripe it was. The mages had been working on this plan for decades he realized, trying to make sure that no one would miss the Witchers. 

He held the sign until the dust settled and he looked around at the crumbled dust of his previous home. He gathered his sword which had been protected from the rocks by his sign and made his way out into the hall. He held his silver sword and in one hand and the sign for Aard was already formed in his other. He was only wearing his scabbards, his shirt, and pants. Not too much protection. As Julian walked he smelled the blood coming from the rooms where the other boys slept. He knew there were no survivors. It was only a matter a time before the Brotherhood invaded, attempting to take the library most likely. Then Julian smelled the smoke. He ran towards the smell and found the crumbled library in flames. Keldar stood at the edge, Igni on his hands, pushing flames hotter into the books, burning their knowledge to the ground. Keldar caught sight of Julian and breathed a sigh of relief. 

When Julian ran up to the Old man, Keldar pushed the Kaer Seren Grimoire into his hands.

“Protect this,” he said, “Jerome is already fighting the mages and once I am finished here I will join him, but you need to run. This knowledge cannot be lost and cannot fall into the Brotherhood’s hands. You must hide it where they would never think to look. Hurry, the Brotherhood does not know your face.”

Suddenly Behind Keldar a swirling silver portal opened up and two mages walked through, their hands alight with Chaos. Keldar turned Julian away and grabbed the silver sword right out of Julian’s hand. 

“RUN!” he shouted as the mages charged. 

Taking one last look at the rubble that was once his home, the burning books full of centuries of knowledge and the last bit held in his hands and not even a sword to protect himself with, Julian bolted. 

He did not stop running, trusting that Keldar and Jerome were most likely sacrificing their lives behind him to distract the mages and give him this opportunity. He ran for hours, not stopping even once his legs trembled at the slightest movement. Finally, he collapsed, hiding in a barn on some small farm somewhere East of the keep. He slept for who knows how long, his thoughts hurried and confused. 

When he woke up, dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon and Julian took a quick sweep of his surroundings to make sure no one was nearby. He then took stock of what exactly he had. It was embarrassingly little. He had sturdy leather boots, pants, a worn red shirt, a sack with a single silver dagger, his Griffin Medallion, and the Grimoire inside. Julian had practically nothing. Fantastic. He needed to leave, to go, somewhere, anywhere. Unfortunately, there was no Witcher council or anything similar so the only way to warn the others would be to head to another keep. If he really was East of Kaer Seren, likely true due to the lack of sea smell on the breeze, the closest keep would be Kaer Morhen on the Gwenllech River. Damnnit he only vaguely knew the way there based on maps he had looked at once or twice. If only those mages had waited another year or so there were tentative plans to hold games at Kaer Morhen and Julian would have journeyed there naturally to compete against the other schools. 

He needed to get there, and fast. He looked around at the small farm he had found himself at and knew he would have to establish exactly where he was before doing anything else. Luckily he looked the part of a robbed traveler and desperately hoped the farmers here would be kind. He only 15 and as long as he kept his eyes downcast they wouldn’t see anything amiss but a stupid young man setting out for the first time only for his journey to end in failure. Thank gods he hadn’t set out on the Path at such a young age and he was completely scar-free. 

Julian knocked on the door of the farmer’s house in the pale dawn lighting. When an older man opened the door Julian did not have to fake the panic overtaking his frame. 

“I was attacked,” he began, “in the woods, I’m so sorry but I need help, desperately.”

The man still looked shocked but gathered himself quickly, “Come inside,” he said, ushering Julian across the threshold, “Young man, there are bandits crawling all over these woods, you are lucky to have escaped with your life. These are dangerous times. Did you hear? Some mages came to finally rid ourselves of the Witcher problem up North as well.”

Julian sat down on a stool next to a table. The man wrapped a blanket around Julian’s shoulders and he shivered as the man mentioned the destruction of Kaer Seren. He put his head on the table. The people knew. They knew and they were happy. He started shaking, tears coming to his eyes and he began to suddenly realize the complete collapse of the world he knew. 

“Fuck Jonathon!” A woman called as she came into the room, “Why is there a boy crying at our table at the crack of dawn.” 

Her voice turned softer as she rubbed her hand on Julian’s back, “Sorry, sweetheart, my husband is not perfect with his words. I suppose you were attacked in the woods? And so young! Why on earth would your parents let you travel alone?”

Julian sniffled a bit, trying to think of any story that wouldn’t out him as a Witcher. He kept his head turned towards the table, “M-my parents are long dead. I was traveling to Yspaden where I have relatives to try and stay with them until I can learn a trade. I-I’m learning to be a bard but I was attacked in the woods and now I have-I have nothing!”

Although most of the story was patently false the loss rang true and Julian buried his head in his hands again. He would have to get to Yspaden, the closest town to Kaer Morhen but fuck if he knew where he was or how to get there. 

The woman sighed before telling her husband to grab the old maps they had and when he came back she lay them out on the table. She had also at some point gotten him a small plate of bread and butter which he ate with great enthusiasm.

“Now, we don’t have anything to offer in the way of goods, but we do have these old maps. They might be a bit out of date, but right now you are just outside of Kakveleein. It would be a good two weeks walk before you come close to Ysapaden and even then, without any way to produce coin, easy to go hungry.”

Julian sighed, he had not made it as far as he thought in his rampant race through the woods. Kakveleein was, quite literally, the closest town to Kaer Seren. Damn it all. In order to make it to Kaer Morhen in any reasonable amount of time, and to outrun any mages still looking for him, he would need a horse. The real question would be if there was anywhere he would be able to find one. 

“I can survive on my own in the woods, my parents where travelers and while I do not have any instruments with me at present, I am sure I could earn coin through song until I have enough to earn a lute and then a horse. Until then, I can travel on foot.”

He was beginning to regain his footing. There were options for him. If he found a wild horse he could Axii it into submission and ride it towards Ysapeden. His singing voice was actually rather good and as long a no one looked at his eyes for too long he might actually be able to make money that way and buy some tack for his horse. Then the journey to Kaer Morhen would actually become a realistic goal. 

The man came back into the conversation, “Actually, I have some work around the farm today, moving some heavy equipment that would benefit from some strong young hands. If you are able to stay until the worst of the work is done and save me some hard labor, well, we do have an old lute my father used to play but I never bothered to learn and we could offer you some provisions, enough for a while at least.”

“Oh yes, of course, I will help however I can. Thank you so much!” Julian practically cried in relief. Things were looking better and better for him. 

The farmer, whose name was found to be Jonathon and his wife Lisandra was very kind and while Julian spent the day doing the back-breaking work of moving equipment out of storage and cleaning it, Lisandra brought him an afternoon meal and some water. He thanked her and kept working. Compared to the grueling training at Kaer Seren, this was practically nothing but Julian put on a show of being rather exhausted. Having an alarming amount of strength is an easy way to get strange looks from the farmers. 

At the end of the day, Jonathon allowed Julian to stay in the barn another night with his sack full of food and a new lute on his back. He politely but firmly asked Julian to be gone by morning but thanked him for his work. Julian figured the farmer thought him some kind of vagrant and did not want him sleeping in his house. He has happy to do so as less time around the couple meant less time to think about why he never met their eyes. 

Before he went to sleep in the itchy and uncomfortable hay, Julian began to tune the lute. Thank goodness for the lessons he learned as a child. He had at least one marketable skill outside of being a Witcher which was the last thing he could be right now. He was sure there were mages skulking about the woods as he tried to sleep. Surely the would not find anything suspicious about a young man traveling to visit some relatives. But damn it all his eyes! He needed a way to find a glamour for them, and fast. But there was no way he could ask the farmers about a nearby mage and god knows anyone he found would be likely to give him a glamour in the first place. Sometimes he wished Witcher magic leant itself towards illusions. Julian fell into an uneasy sleep, his dreams full of burning books and silver portals. 

When he woke up, he headed out as quickly as he could, giving a quick wave to the couple before he was swallowed by the woods. He walked quietly, trying to find a herd of wild horses. He would be quite a bit faster on a horse than on foot. Finally, after a few hours of walking he saw it. In a clear pasture stood five or so horses. He raised his arm and cast a quick Axii on the nearest horse. She had a white and brown speckled pelt and was grazing on a shrub surrounded by small yellow flowers. He reached out his arm to pet her and she nudged him, ah the wonders of magic. 

Julian looked down at the yellow flowers, then back up at the horse.

“I think I will call you buttercup, and isn’t that just foolish of you, eating so close to poison?”

He swung himself up onto the horse without any trouble or interference and while riding bareback was a wholly uncomfortable experience it was just until the next town when he could buy or attempt to somehow earn a saddle and other tack for her. 

Julian had never loved riding horses, but Buttercup was a smooth ride, possibly due to the magical influence, and hardly jostled. The first few hours of slow gentle walking went fine and Julian occasionally switched between walking her and riding on her. He was not used to riding for long lengths of time and would regret it if his muscles began cramping up. Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt the same sense of danger right before the attack on Kaer Seren. 

He was leading Buttercup, or more accurately she was sedately following behind him so Julian had plenty of time to turn and see the mage stalking towards him. He tried for a friendly and disarming smile but one look at the mage’s face and he knew they were not here to ask who he was. The mage knew who he was. Julian cursed himself for keeping the dagger, the only means of protection he currently had in his sack, and simply tried to ready himself for the attack from the mage. The man twisted his arms and a bolt of magic leapt out at Julian who jumped to the side to avoid it. 

With a push of his own arm, he threw the mage across the clearing with an Aard. However, the mage was more powerful than that and got up quickly, running towards Julian, hands now ablaze with fire. 

“Fuck!” Julian cried out as he rolled away, his hand going into his pack to try and find the dagger. He pulled it out and swiped desperately at the mage. Julian cast Quen just as the magic reach for him again, and the magic shield stayed strong but Julien knew he was weak and needed to end this battle sooner rather than later. 

Feeling the Chaos present in the woods he brought the magic up and into himself. He gathered it into his arms and then pushed out into his hand which was forming Axii. Julian hoped it would be strong enough to catch the mage under its pull, if only for a moment. 

The mage suddenly pulled away, magic dying down and eyes glass. Julian breathed a sigh of relief. He went through the small pack the mage carried and found rope. Thank gods, he tied the mage to a tree. 

Julian did not plan to kill this mage just yet, see, he had just been wondering how exactly he could gain a glamour and the answer fell right into his lap. He was not to pass up this perfect opportunity. He waited until the mage woke up, struggling against the bindings, but Julian already knew that these bindings were meant for Witchers, they could contain a mage well enough. 

“Hello mage,” Julian said, “Now, I find myself in a bit of a problem situation and seem to need your help.”

“Fuck off!” the mage shouted, “Dirty, mutated Witcher, hoarding magic like you know better than the Brotherhood.”

“Ahh, see, now that’s where I want this conversation to lead, see I actually do not know magic as well as the Brotherhood and do require your help. For all our battle magics grant us, we Witchers are not particularly skilled at illusionary magic like you.”

The mage just spit as Julian’s feet. Not much of a talker then. 

“There’s no need to be rude. Look at me, you destroyed my home and everyone in it and I am perfectly able to hold a civil conversation.”

Julian looked at the mage, wondering if he could find an object on them that would be good enough to anchor the glamour onto. He then caught sight of a shiny golden ring on the mage’s finger. Perfect. He snatched it quickly off the vile man, ignoring his protests. It was imbued with Chaos, the mage likely used it in ritual magics or something similar but Julian had a different idea for it. At this point, he knew there was no way he would convince this mage to actually cast a glamour for him so he cast Axii again, a little more powerful this time by siphoning off some of the Chaos in the ring and politely asked the mage to put the glamour spell he wanted on the ring. 

It was really surprising, how uncreative mages were. They never even thought about the potential ramifications of having someone else do a little spell casting for you against their own will. So dull. 

When the mage was done, Julian slipped the ring on and felt the coils of magic surrounding his eyes. He looked at his reflection in the silver dagger and smiled, fantastic just a young human boy. He then turned the dagger and put it through the throat of the still dazed mage. 

“That was for the Griffins you bastard.” He said and pulled it out with a squelch. Oh lord, Julian hoped he would not make this a habit. His emotional responses were a little, off, to say the least for the past few days. His body was compensating for the trauma by going into fight mode which left his overall emotional state a little muted. He would have to meditate tonight and try and convince his own body that, yes, it’s alright to go through normal physiological responses again, please let me access my emotional trauma fully. 

He looked at the dead body at his feet, then at Buttercup who had stood there quietly the whole time. She neighed and shook her mane. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Julian said as he clambered up onto the horse, “He was a dick.”

Julian rode off into the day and found himself entering Creyden not but a few hours afterward. Ah, yes, finally a city to settle down in for a night, and now that he had the little problem of his eyes taken care of he could pretend to be just a normal traveler. Considering he never even had a chance to go on The Path before everything he loved was taken from him in the most horrifying way possible, in many ways he really was a sad excuse of a Witcher. Could he even do Witcher-y things? It’s not like he had any armor or swords. Julian was confident of his ability to fight monsters considering Jerome occasionally set him out to take care of beasts in the forest surrounding the keep but he’d heard from Coën there were often contracts and such that needed to be taken care of. Well, no matter, it’s not like Julian could be a Griffin Witcher at the moment anyway, he’s sure mages were on the hunt, looking for the grimoire. He hoped the others currently on the path would survive. Julian realized at this moment he had never interacted with a human before in his life. Fuck. 

He passed into the bustling streets of Creyden and marveled at the sheer noise. It was a little overwhelming to his sense if he was being honest but Julian reveled in it. There were just so many people! They were shouting and yelling, the stalls along the streets crowded by people haggling prices and goods exchanging hands. Julian was rather lucky he had hardly anything but the clothes on his back for he surely made the perfect sight to steal, a boy no older than 15 with his own horse, simply staring at the street. 

He shook himself and started looking for an inn. He could very well live the lie he had told the farmers and perform with the lute for a night, get enough coin to buy a saddle for Buttercup and then carry on to Kaer Morhen. 

Originally, he had doubted his ability to gain enough coin to buy supplies but in a city this large, there surely had to be a tavern in need of music. If he weren’t so well-read Julian would likely be completely lost. Luckily, there seemed to be some benefits to spending more time in the library than in the training fields. He saw the sign for a small Tavern off the main road that seemed busy, but not nearly so nice as the other Taverns around. Perfect. They would not be likely to attract bards so would welcome even a traveling apprentice. 

He ducked in and went up to the barkeep, “My good sir,” he started, trying desperately to make himself sound very important and confident and not just a boy. “I notice that your tavern is lacking in, shall we say, entertainment and would happily play here if it is to your liking.”

The man paused, and Julian wondered if he had done something wrong before the barkeep burst out laughing, “Aren’t you just an adorable young lad, most bards would just head up and start playing, if it’s not taken, then the stage is open. You must be new judging on your age.”

Julian felt heat rising to his face. He thought he had been suave and confident but he apparently came off as an overly polite young man. Alright then, he walked over to a corner where a stool was set up and began strumming to chords to warm up. He obviously couldn’t sing any songs about monsters, witchery, or even the terrible soup Keldar made so he would have to stick with the book of sea shanties he found in a dark and dismal corner of the library. It was unlikely it had been left in the library on purpose but it was the only book of music available and so Julian had learned every song. 

The first song came out a little nervous and when he sang some of the dirtier lines he stuttered over them but this only made the patrons laugh. Apparently they got a kick out of watching a boy barely into manhood singing about drunken sailors and pretty men. As the night progress, Julian became more confident and soon he had plenty of coin piled up into the lute’s case. He took a break and headed over to the bar where he got himself a meal. When he sat down one of the barmaids came over and sat herself down next to him. She was very pretty, with bright blue eyes and red hair and plenty of freckles. She looked about his age or maybe a year or so older. 

“I loved your music,” she gushed, “learning a trade so young and already performing, you must have had the most fantastic master! I’m Genevive.” She smiled at him and for a moment Julian forgot how to speak. She was absolutely gorgeous and well, let’s just say there are not too many opportunities for meeting pretty girls like Genevive at Kaer Seren. 

“Uh, Th-thank you.” Julian stuttered out, his face heating although he doubted it was noticeable. Curse his bastard tongue, get it together Julian! “I learned years ago but finally decided it was time to strike out on my own you know? And, uh, Julian. Is my name.” 

And there, he just used his real name. Actually, was there any problem with doing that? It’s not like he ever left the keep and there weren’t any records of the Witcher apprentices. His name seemed safe enough to use. 

“I can hardly tell you just began, you are a natural on stage!”

“Well, I try, I truly do, and you are just a natural in your beauty.” 

Tada! Score one for Julian. He’s great at talking to people, absolutely fantastic. Granted, he does not have a lot of conversations to compare this to but...Well. Genevive and he talked for a good while and before he knew what was happening he was outside near the horse trough where Buttercup was looking on with the most judgmental look with his tongue down Genevive’s throat. This was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life. If the mages caught up to him, recognized him, and killed him right now, Julian would die happy. Well, he would try and destroy the grimoire first to stop those bastards from getting their hands on it, but he would die happy. 

Unfortunately, the barkeep chose that moment to dump out the heaps of food leftover from customers and caught them. 

“Genevive!” He shouted, “What are you doing out here with…” he caught sight of Julian and his face turned an alarming angry shade of red. 

“You,” he growled, and Julian might have strength and stamina but this man was ready to kill. “Get AWAY from my daughter you mongrel.”

Julian jumped away from Genevive and as the man began to roll us his sleeves Julian swung onto Buttercup, the lute case slapping against his back full of music and coins and galloped away, immediately regretting his decision as he realized, oh yes, he was riding bareback. 

Luckily, a horse can outrun an angry father and Julian found himself and Buttercup ducking in a side street and praying the man decided to let his daughter choose her own partners, thank you very much. Eventually Julian found his way to an even seedier tavern that let him stay the night for free in exchange for him performing a few songs for the customers. Unfortunately, this money went right to the tavernkeeper but at this point Julian just wanted a bath and a bed. Thank everything that is green, when he went to the room he found both. 

A short while later, Julian found himself lying in bed, his clothes hanging out to dry after he washed them in the bathwater trying to sleep. He first went into a meditative state and calmed his body down. He tried to convince himself that he was safe, no, nothing was currently trying to kill him so could you please stop sending me signals to run every 10 seconds. In a great rush, he felt the tension release from him and the shock left. Tears began to prick at his eyes as he took in the fact that he had just killed a man, no matter if it was in self-defense and he was running from a very dangerous group of people that wanted him dead more than anything else. He was so very tired and sleep came easy, even if his dreams were anything but. 

The next morning, Julian spent all of his coin getting Buttercup outfitted with a saddle, reigns, a lead, basically everything he would need to ride her comfortably to Kaer Morhen. This meant he had no money left for food but after years of being on a moss-based diet, thank you apprentice training, Julian was not worried about lack of food. He was a little more concerned about his complete lack of weapons but figured it would only help his image as a young man trying to set out on his own for the first time. Very helpless, definitely not a Witcher in disguise trying to warn the other Witchers of their possible destruction thank you very much. 

He managed to ride through Creyden right into the kingdom of Kaedwen with little stopping him. Honestly, if Julian had not brought his lute with him the journey would have been rather boring. Of course, this might be due to him spending his nights deep in the forest where bandits would never go and avoiding any and all monsters in the woods. Witcher he might be, but without his swords he had no desire to take on a drowner anytime soon. Finally, around a week after leaving Creyden Julian found himself at the foot of the Gwenllech river. He could see the small town of Yspaden below him and headed towards it. He had to know if Kaer Morhen was still safe or if it had already been attacked. 

This was most certainly not a city and could hardly be called a town. The people here were suspicious of eachother and even more so of strangers. Julian tethered Buttercup to a post outside a small shop and went inside. It was a herbalist and Julian got himself a strong tea to ward off the late summer chill that was beginning to set into the air. As he sat at a table and looked around he saw snippets of conversations. Then he spotted them. A group of mages sitting around a table wearing the symbol of the Brotherhood. Julian tried to best to look relaxed and drew the sign for Supirre onto the table. Suddenly he could hear the mages’ conversation in perfect clarity as if they were at the table with him. 

“They still haven’t found the escaped Witcher from Kaer Seren?” One of the women asked, “The one with the grimoire?”

“No,” another answered, “and they didn’t get a good look at his face either, so we are just waiting on our asses for clues about a young Witcher. He likely would head towards another keep considering his age but I haven’t seen anyone passing through. We haven’t even heard rumors of the boy since he ran. He may be a Griffin but he has the cunning of the Viper running through him.”

“Don’t worry,” the third mage said, “Stregobor is working on a tracking ritual for the grimoire, the only way he will escape is if the boy is able to find a warded region. Which is, well, unlikely to say the least.”

“Still, this is not the ideal situation. We took out of the oldest Wicher schools and for what? The entire Witcher community to hate us?”

“Well, if the plan goes ahead correctly we won’t have to worry about the Witcher schools for much longer. Damn Witchers and their bastardizations of magic. We just need to continue the work already laid out for us, and we’ll be ready to go.”

Julian had heard enough, he got up and headed, canceling the spell as he went. However, a voice shouted out behind him, “Boy! Bard! Over here.”

Julian swore and turned around, trying to keep his face open and curious, he headed over to the mages’ table.

“Yes?” he asked.

One of the mages looked him over, staring at his eyes for a moment before continuing, “You are a bard, yes? Heard anything about Witchers in the area?”

Julian laughed a little, “They live just up the mountain, surely you’ve heard of the Wolf Witchers?”

The mage sighed, “I meant,” he said, stressing the last word, “Any new Witchers, likely a few years older than yourself, heading this way.”

Julian shook his head, “The Witchers never leave their keep. And I recently came here from Tridam and I have heard nothing of Witchers traveling towards here.” 

The mage waved him off and Julian took the opportunity to leave. He was quite sure that if the glamour wasn’t anchored to such a powerful object the glamour would surely have been detected by the other mages, but the ring, whatever it was, held up well and did its job. 

As he left the shop he pondered the conversation he had overheard. Sooner rather than later the Grimoire was going to be tracked. He needed a place that was warded against a mages’ ritual magic to hide it. Damnnit, there were very few places that fit that description. Theoretically, an old Elven territory would be perfect but even Dol Blathanna would likely not be strong enough. However, a mage’s magic wouldn’t hide from its own rituals so they locations are out too. If he could somehow find a place touched by Chaos formed through Elven and Mage magic that would theoretically work. By gods though, Julian had no idea what kind of place fit that description. 

He knew he was unlikely to get anything useful from the villagers as they seemed to be generally suspicious and disagreeable when it came to the Witchers living on their doorstep. Therefore, Julian saddled up Buttercup and headed on the path towards Kaer Morhen, taking care to head around Yspaden and appear to be going North towards Barefield. 

After all he had been through the past few weeks, traveling a mere half days journey to Kaer Morhen was not nearly so treacherous as he would believe. The path was well trodden and wide, not at all like the twisted path leading to Kaer Seren. Clearly, the Wolf Witchers were comfortable with their people and trades. Well, lucky for them. Julian doubted this would last long if the mage’s words were any indication. He needed to warn whoever was in charge of the Keep, ask what kinds of locations he could hide the grimoire in, and then get the hell out of the way. Afterward, well, a good number of mages had made it onto his kill list. 

Julian came atop that hill that overlooked Kaer Morhen and his breath was taken away. It was a gorgeous almost castle-like structure built right into the mountain, far larger than Kaer Seren, with turrets high up and sharp drops no every side. Julian nudged Buttercup down the hill and made his way to the imposing gates that housed the Wolves. 

An older man met him near the gates. 

“Turn back boy,” he said, his voice one of disgust. “I do not care who dared you to travel here, this is a school for Witchers, humans are not welcome.”

Julian was almost offended at this assumption of his humanity but was also pleased that his deception held up that well. He leapt off of Buttercup and immediately the man’s hand was on his sword. Julian slowly reached for the ring and took it off his finger. When he golden cat-eyes were exposed the man paused and look confused rather than defensive. 

“I am Julian, the last of Kaer Seren,” he said, “and something terrible has happened.”

This statement caught the man’s attention and he looked around as if expecting an ambush and ushered Julian inside. There were, well, there were a lot of people here. It made sense in a way, with a Keep so large it only made sense to fill it. Boys of a variety of ages ran around and even a few girls. That was very rare for Witcher Apprentices. There was a good number of older Witchers as well, some close to Julian’s age and others who were clearly on the path and simply visiting the Keep. 

The man sat them down at a table in the shade, Julian noticed that they were in sight of the other Witchers. 

“My name is Vesemir,” the older man said, “Master of this Keep. Now tell me Julian, why have you traveled from Kaer Seren?”

Julian took a breath and explained his story to Vesemir. The destruction and the possibility that he is the only survivor from Kaer Seren, the mages’ hungry want for their power, the burning of the library. Julian neglected to mention the Grimoire in his bag, electing to keep as little people in the know as possible. Goodness knows how many Witchers were listening to their conversations right now. He explained how he hid as a Bard’s apprentice and made his way across Kovir to Kaer Morhen. 

In the end, Vesemir seemed almost impressed, perhaps Julian was projecting but the man reminded him greatly of Keldar, given a few decades less. 

At length, he spoke, “I suppose I could only expect a Griffin to have enough charisma to charm such a variety of people as to end up here safely. I apologize for the loss of your Keep and I will let the other Witchers know when they head out on the path, word will make its way around. I assume you are not yet on the path?”

Julian nodded, “I was soon to be, actually, until the destruction caught me off guard, now, however, I am not sure if it is safe to be a Griffin. As well, it is vitally important that the attack on Kaer Seren was just the beginning I believe that mages are planning to attack the other schools as well.”

At this the man shook his head, “I doubt it. The Griffins had the failure of hubris. Your lot kept knowledge close to the chest and it is this knowledge that destroyed you. Here, we are more open than other schools and it is unlikely the mages would find fault with us.”

Julian felt anger rise up with him, “The Brotherhood will attack, I can assure of this, it is simply a matter of if you will be prepared or taken by surprise.”

“I see,” Vesemir said, his face shutting down. “You can stay here for the night, rest, gather supplies, but in the morning I want you gone. There is no place for your paranoia here.”

Julian pushed the chair away as he moved aside. Gods, why did he even try? Of course they couldn’t see their own downfall. Their Keep was alive bustling, they couldn’t see the ruin that Julian himself witnessed. And damnit it all he did not get a chance to ask about locations to hide the Grimoire. Not that he likely could have without giving the game away. He realized that he had no idea where a room would be, the baths, the library (if they even had one here). He sighed. 

He saw a boy sitting in one of the alcoves book in hand, writing. There was no one else around so loathe as he was to disrupt him, Julian headed over. 

“Excuse me?” Julian said. 

The other boy turned an intense glare upon Julian, gold meeting gold. So, another fully formed Witcher, around his age too. He was likely to be leaving on the path soon. He had white hair curling around his face falling to just below his chin. He had a rather severe look about him and when he spoke he sounded like he wanted to be doing anything else. 

“What?” the other boy snapped, “Come to bother me again?”

Julian tried to take a diplomatic approach, gods were all wolves standoffish and defensive?

“Uh well, actually I am visiting from Kovir and was hoping to know where I might find the library, a bed, and maybe the baths. Not necessarily in that order.”

The boy got up and began walking down the hallway, clearly expecting Julian to follow. 

“The library is at the bottom of the North tower, the rooms are in the east and the baths in the west, just look at the sun long enough and you should be able to find your way around.”

“Thanks! I’m Julian by the way.”

The boy sighed, again, lord, did he have a breathing problem, “Geralt.”

They made their way to a heavy wooden door and when Julian went to open it Geralt gave him a long look. 

“Why exactly do you need a library, if you are from Kaer Seren which is likely given Kovir then you already have access to the best archive of books.”

“Well, Geralt, I am not currently at Kaer Seren am I? And in case you didn’t know Kaer Seren was actually destroyed in an attack and I would like to figure out some reasons why so if you please.”

Julian pushed past Geralt into the library and heard an insulted scoff from behind him but he did not care. He was on a timeline and had no time to waste. Geralt followed him in.

“I’m sorry, did I hear you right, Kaer Seren, destroyed?”

Julian had no desire to repeat the somber story so he nodded and decided that if the other boy was sticking around he might as well be useful. 

“Look, if you are going to be here I need books that contain the histories of Mages and Elven ritual locations and a map of the Continent.”

Geralt wrinkled his nose, “I don’t know if we actually have all those, but I know where they would be."

He returned with just two books, one on the old map of Elven territories and one up-to-date map of the Continent. 

Julian accepted the inferior library of Kaer Morhen for what it was and opened both the book and the map. He could supposedly compare the two and see if there was any overlap between locations. Theoretically if the Mages were stupid enough to use old Elven grounds for building something the magic surrounding the place would be enough to obfuscate any scrying ritual. As Julian settled in for a good long few hours of staring at maps dejectedly, Geralt made himself comfortable, propping his feet up onto the table and pulling out that notebook again. 

Julian felt his eye twitch, “Listen, this is your home so obviously I am not going to tell you where to be. However, would you at least show these books the respect they deserve and keep your feet off the damn table.”

Geralt scoffed, “Really? You want me to lessen my own comfort in favor of old piles of parchment?”

“Listen here, books are priceless works of art and the knowledge contained in them is far more interesting than your worthless shoes. How on Earth you Wolves even manage to upkeep a library with your lack of manners and defensiveness is beyond me.”

Geralt still refused to move his feet from the table and in a fit of anger, Julian pushed the stupid feet attached to the stupid boy off the table. They hit the floor with a thump and Geralt rolled his eyes, once again writing in the notebook. Julian groaned, gods, he was annoying. 

He went back to looking at the books and trying to see where on earth he could hide the Grimoire. Both Ban Ard and Aretuza were taken from old Elven land, but surely there was not enough magic just infused in the land for this to work. No, it needed to be a more important location, for both parties. But wait, looking at the map, Aretuza seemed to be on top of Tor Lara. Specifically, Aretuza’s Tower of the Gull housed a naturally occurring ancient and unstable portal the Evels used to protect at Tor Lara. This could be it. The energy the portal would be giving off would be pure Chaos, the land Elven, and the building mage. That is the perfect combination, now how on earth would he be able to access it. Hardly any were invited to Aretuza and even then, only female mages ever were truly allowed inside. 

He kept trying to concentrate but a steady tapping noise brought him out of his thoughts. He looked over to see that nuisance Geralt tapping on the table with his pencil. The bastard met his eyes, mockingly. He knew exactly what he was doing. Oh fuck this, Julian stood up and quickly snatched Geralt little notebook away from him. 

Ha! That got him panicking. 

“Julian, give that back!”

Julian was planning on doing no such thing, he finally got the other boy to show more than a vague annoyance so he began to read from the little notebook. 

He opened his mouth and used his most aristocratic voice to recite,

_“Eskel, Eskel, belongs in a cell, how he got here I never will dwell. What a life to lead to share a room with a room with that ponce, I wish I were dead.”_

Julian made a face, “Poetry? Really, you are spending your time brooding and writing poetry about your roommate. Gods Geralt, you need to get out on the path already.”

Geralt quickly snatched the book back and looked at Julian with narrowed eyes. “I am planning on leaving after this next winter. I am only 14 and Vesemir...dislikes any of us leaving so soon.”

“Well, take a leaf of a Griffin’s book and head out onto the path whenever you are ready, nothing to it.”

Granted, Julian himself hadn’t exactly ever been on The Path and was more speaking from experience of his past two weeks in which he did not even attempt a contract for fear of his life, but still. Geralt was annoying and Julian would not let him seemingly have the upper hand by letting him know he knew next to nothing about The Path. 

Geralt just grunted. Julian had the information he needed and after two weeks on the road, desperately wanted a bath. 

“You said the baths are to the West, right? Anywho, you could put these books back where they belong? I am exhausted.”

Without waiting for a reply Julian left the room, leaving Geralt standing to clean up his mess. 

The baths at Kaer Morhen were the most fantastic thing Julian had ever seen in his entire life. They were seem set into the floor and were almost like large pools. And oh lord the water was just the right temperature seemed to flow through the room so the water always ran clear. Was this some kind of heaven? Had they tapped into natural hot springs and were just lucky enough to build their Keep around it? Julian imagined the earliest Wolf Witchers finding some hot springs far up into the mountain and deciding there and then to build their home around it. Gods knows he would have. Why on Earth did the Wolves get such nice things and they couldn’t even properly enjoy them?

He sunk down even further into the heated water, wondering if he would drown and wrinkle up like a dried berry if he just stayed in here the whole night. Maybe if he talked to Vesemir again, he could stay another day and just refuse to leave the baths. 

Julian heard the door open and he turned around, slightly annoyed his time was being interrupted. It was Geralt, again. This time though he was holding clothes in one hand and food in the other so Julian decided he was a rather welcome intrusion. 

“Vesemir instructed me to bring you some food and clothes.” he recited as if from a script, “he said since I already met you he might as well mitigate your terrible influence rubbing off onto any other impressionable Witchers.”

Julian laughed, “Wow, he reminds me of a lot of my old mentor Keldar. I’m sure they get along fantastically.”

He grabbed some food off the plate and ravenously devoured what he supposed was some kind of wild boar. 

“Fuck, Geralt, you wolves live a blessed life here. I have spent the last week eating mushrooms and mosses and berries. I love meat, I missed it so much. I was so uncomfortably reminded of my apprentice days.”

Geralt had settled down beside the pool, taking off his shows and putting his feet in the water. 

“I would like to push any memories of the diet of a Witcher apprentice as far away from me as possible,” Geralt said with a grimace.

“Oh come on,” Julian pressed, “It wasn’t all bad, sometimes, if we weren’t eating disgusting food and training all day, we would get sent on week-long trips into the woods just to see if we could ‘survive’.”

“That’s tame,” Geralt responded, “Just after the trials, a bunch of us were sent into the woods to fight a Wyvern that had taken up residence.”

He pulled up his shirt and showed off a ropey scar that slashed across his chest, “That’s where I got this.”

Julian’s eyes lit up, “Wicked, I don’t have any scars yet, I’m very agile and able to avoid them. But I’ve never taken on anything like a Wyvern.”

Geralt shrugged, “It’s what we do.” He got up and began to leave, “Your horse has been taken care of and it’s in the stable, just outside the rooms on the East part of the Keep, there’s food in the pack and some weaponry if you’d like it. Vesemir told me he wants you gone by dawn.”

With that, Geralt left. Julian was absolutely alright with leaving soon. Now that he knew he needed to hide the Book in the Tower of the Gull he just needed a plan to figure out how to get there. He finished eating and regretfully got dressed and out of the baths. He put on the light blue shirt and brown pants gifted to him and looked in the mirror. 

Golden eyes stared back. He put on the ring. Blue eyes almost perfectly matching the shirt he was now wearing. He really did just look like a boy with no training in anything just setting out to see the world. He could easily pass as a nobleman’s son or something similar. His hair just barely brushed the top of his shoulders and as Julian looked at his reflection he was overcome with an idea. He remembered the words from Keldar’s first lesson on magic all those years ago. 

_Magic stems from nature. It is in the earth we walk upon, in the fire burning in its heart, in the air we breathe, and in the water which brings life and which flows within us. If you happen to be gifted with a particular talent, all you need to do is reach out your hand and grasp the magic all around you._

Julian breathed in and looked the moss just collecting the edge of the mirror. He felt the chaos gather. He breathed out, the small patch of moss grew the smallest bit. He smiled. He had enough Chaos that he could theoretically fool the mages into thinking he had potential, for a little while at least. He would not be sticking around long enough to need to learn to portal or other complex magics he wouldn’t be able to perform. He just needed to be at Ban Ard long enough to find the way to Tor Lara and then he would be long gone. 

He made his way to the room on the other end of the keep. The bed was comfortable and the sounds of the mountains put him into a gentle sleep. Julian awoke just before dawn and quickly gathered his supplies. He went to the stables which were in fact just outside his rooms and saw that Buttercup was looking quite happy. Julian looked at the assorted armors and weaponry on the wall and elected to only take a bow and arrow. While it was not his weapon of choice, it was one that would not draw attention as many commoners learned it as a way to hunt and if he was going to pretend to be a young man discovering magic, well, swords and armor would draw the quite of attention he did not need. 

As he swung himself up onto Buttercup and headed out onto the road he turned around, looking for once last time at Kaer Morhen and hoping that in some way, Vesemir would head his warning. He thinks he might have seen Geralt looking at him out of one of the windows but that may have just been his imagination wanting to say goodbye. 

Julian headed away from Kaer Morhen in the rising sun, on the path to Ban Ard.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the audience can have a little bit of Geralt...as a treat. Unfortunately, we won't be seeing him for a while since Julian has his own shit to get through!! He's gotta go undercover as a mage and attempt to hide his Witcher nature in a literal den of sorcerers. Think of it like a muggle trying to infiltrate Hogwarts. Did I mention Stregobor is currently the Rector? For a hot second, I thought of having Julian crossdress and go into Aretuza but unfortunately the school is just a little too far away and he doesn't have time to travel. Also YES, I gave Julian his first kiss, but nothing more than that because sorry he's only 15.
> 
> Also, bonus points to anyone who remembers Jaskier's gold ring!! I will reference canon as many damn times as needed until we reach that point.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian goes on a fuck-them-up road trip.

Julian had no desire to once again interact with the fine folks of Ysapaden, so he instead headed through the Blue Mountains. There was a mountain path that was easy enough to follow, unpopular but clear, and an easy ride for Buttercup. The provisions he had grabbed from Kaer Morhen served him well and a few days later he reached the Livel River without any trouble. 

Following the river southwest through to Kaedwen led him to the city of Ban Ard, home of the infamous Ban Ard Academy, the lesser cousin of Aretuza. If Julian wanted any hope of accessing Tor Lara he better be a mage so he would have to find a way to get himself accepted at the elite school. First, he really ought to try and find a disguise. It was well known that Ban Ard students were well-tracked by the Rector and even if they dropped out, the mage community like to keep an eye on anyone with magic. Whatever disguise Julian would come up with, it would be burned by the end of this self-driven mission. 

He headed into the city of Ban Ard, which while no Creyden was a good sight larger than Yspaden. Julian slid off Buttercup and led her into town. It was mid-afternoon and the stalls of the market were beginning to pack up as the day grew longer and the crowds thinned out. Food vendors were beginning to roast meat and other food items for dinner crowds and Julian could even see some musicians beginning to set up for performances. 

Then he saw a sign for an apothecary and he ducked into the store after tying up Buttercup out front next to a trough. A bell rang as he entered the store and an elderly woman looked up from behind the counter. 

Julian knew exactly what he was looking for and he headed towards the cosmetic products at the front of the shop. He grabbed some wood ash soap and some hair oils and then walked over to the shopkeep.

“That’ll be 4 coppers,” she said in an uninterested tone. 

He handed over the money and then went in search of a tavern. He was generally uninterested in playing tonight however as he had little in the way of coin, he again offered his services in exchange for room and board. 

Again, this tavern-keeper allowed this set-up and a few hours later with a sore throat, Julian found himself relaxing in the bath, allowing the wood-ash soap to soak into his hair. 

After just under an hour he rinsed the soap out of his hair and applied the oils. He looked up into the cracked mirror above the vanity and found his hair to be a garish orange color. He rather liked his brunette hair before, but sacrifices must be made and he had to take every precaution to disconnect who he really was with who he intended to be. Julian looked at his hair again and sighed. He would have to apply the soap again in the morning and try and make it a shade lighter or two. This was a special type of awful. 

As he looked in the mirror the next day after another round of wood-ash he thought about how he would go about getting in Ban Ard. This was the issue with having little in the way of plans or guidance. Julian looked in the mirror and saw a young boy with cornflower blue eyes and wavy yellow-blonde hair down to his shoulders. With his fair face and unblemished skin, he could pass as just another nobleman’s son out in the world for the first time. 

Actually, come to think of it, that was not the worst idea. Yes, Julian could see the plan forming now. If he could pose as a noble’s son heading off the Ban Ard then he would be able to enter into the school seamlessly. The only issue was that not only did Julian have no idea where to find future students of Ban Ard, but he also had no idea how he would go about stealing their identity. 

Julian sighed and put on a simple white tunic with blue breeches and headed out of the room, lute slung across his back. He tried to find the nicest possible tavern in town, hoping to find Ban Ard prospective students. Lords, he was really flying by the seat of his pants here. 

The first tavern didn’t even have anyone near his age and the second was full of mercenaries and was not the kind of place a noble would ever deign to stay. In the second tavern, Julian even saw a fair number of Witchers. It was unlikely they were taking contracts here as the Ban Ard boys were not fond of Witchers in their territory but the city was a good place to stop between the north and south ends of the continent. Julian didn’t see any Griffin Witchers, he saw two Wolves, and what looked like a Bear based on the armor, although he couldn’t see the medallion from this distance. Julian was almost grateful for the lack of other Griffins. It was still painful to think about the destruction of Kaer Seren and having to relive the story all over again would take his mind off his goal. Even if the others couldn’t see it, Julian knew the age of the Witchers was ending. Here in the tavern, other patrons threw dirty glances at the Witchers and there was a general sense of ‘you are not welcome here’. 

However, the third tavern had potential. It was rather nice, but not ostentatious, the perfect place for a noble to stay if they did not want to draw attention to their wealth. Julian spent an hour or so sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and listening in to conversations around him. Nothing he overheard was particularly helpful in any way shape or form. He finally found his answer in a boy a few years older than himself at the edge of the bar. 

He was wearing a matching red doublet and breeches and his black hair was short and messy. He was tall and broadly built, uncommon for many nobles. The boy was clearly inebriated and did not seem at all pleased. Something about him whispered to Julian.

Julian slid over to the other and smiled as he said, “What’s a pretty face like you doing in a place like this?”

“Fuck off.” mumbled the other boy. 

Julian grimaced, “Apologies, you just seemed particularly miserable and I thought you could use a little pick me up.” He stuck out his hand, “I’m Julian, your name?”

The other boy rolled his eyes but whether it was due to the alcohol or boredom he responded rather than just ignore Julian altogether. 

“Trefor Edgar Fairchilde at your service, 7th son of the Baron of Galeta. Go on, I’m sure you are suitably impressed.”

His voice was laced with disdain. 

“And what exactly is the son of a Baron doing in a bar in Ban Ard?”

Trefor sighed, “My father figured it was time to have a magic user in the family, never mind that there hasn’t been a drop of magical blood in generations. I’m the 7th son so there isn’t a whole lot I’m really useful for, and I am bad luck besides due to nothing more than the order of my birth. So I’m being sent away to attempt magic for a few years while my family pretends I don’t exist. Gods, I don’t even know why I am telling you this.”

Julian imagined that under normal circumstances most would prefer to not divulge their entire life stories to complete strangers, however, with just a hint of magic pushed into his words Julian became suddenly a lot easier to talk to. It was simple enough to do, however, most Witchers would never employ magic to make themselves more charming so it was a rather rare occurrence. 

“Why don’t you run?” Julian asked.

“I can’t. My family would notice I’m missing and it would bring a general sense of shame to my family to have a son who turned down a position at Ban Ard. Especially after my father spent so much money to get me accepted without ever anyone at the school ever having met me.”

“Well,” Julian responded, “I might just have a solution for you. See, I believe it was destiny that led me here. It was no coincidence that you and I exist here in this tavern at this exact moment. I myself have talent at magic but absolutely no way of learning it. Meanwhile, you find yourself with no talent at magic but an invitation to one of the best schools of magic on the continent.”

Trefor laughed, “You really think you could just take my identification and leave me alone in the streets? I might not be happy but at least I am comfortable.”

Julian shrugged, “Do you have any kind of idea of what you want to do? If you didn’t have the burden of your family’s name?”

With a shrug, Trefor responded, “I don’t know, I’m handy with a sword, I suppose I’d want to work as a bounty hunter. There’s a small part of me that is still a boy wanting to be the hero.”

“I’ll make you a deal. Using this,” here Julian swung his lute around and patted it, “I will earn enough money to get you equipped for life as a bounty hunter. In return, you can give me both your invitation and papers and I will take your place at Ban Ard. I only plan to stay long enough to learn magic and then I will be gone. I can even fake your death if you like, no more need to worry about your family at all that way.”

Trefor considered this proposal, “That is an almost shockingly good idea. I could escape the shackles of my family and you could learn magic. You know what Julian? You have yourself a deal.”

Julian felt a smile spread across his face. A perfect way to get into Ban Ard, under the guise of someone who could never be traced back to him. He spent the rest of the day playing and earning a little coin. He would never gain enough money to outfit Trefor at this rate, so if he stole the purses of a few wealthy yet inebriated nobles, well, who would be any the wiser? 

Julian made sure he had enough money to also outfit himself with a variety of nice outfits and other products a traveling noble would likely have on them.

He accompanied Trefor to a variety of different shops, switching out his doublet for leather armor and his pack for a large broadsword. By the end, Trefor hardly resembled the uncomfortable nobleman he had seen before. With the correct armor and weaponry, he could almost fit in as a bounty hunter. Julian hoped Trefor was as proficient with a sword as he claimed. He would hate to have sent someone to their death in the hopes of living out their dream. Overall, Julian was not too worried. Trefor, over the short course of the day, had shown himself to be both resourceful and ambitious. He had a biting sense of humor and took most of life in stride. Julian had a feeling Trefor would have no issue fitting into the world of bounty hunting and the like. 

Julian stood with Trefor outside where Trefor’s rooms were. Julian was holding onto Buttercup’s reigns and while he knew this would hurt it was likely the best idea for everyone. 

“Here,” Julian said, thrusting Buttercups reigns into Trefor’s hands. “You will likely need a horse more than I at this point. Please, take good care of Buttercup for me, she’s a sweet horse and I promise she will give you no trouble.”

Trefor smiled at Julian, “I cannot thank you enough. This has been amazing and while I understand that you are also benefiting from this arrangement I cannot fully explain how much this means to me.”

As Trefor grabbed the reins he pulled Julian into a hug and Julian felt himself blush all the way to his ears.

“It’s no problem at all!” Julian said.

“Is there anything at all I can do to thank you?” Trefor asked.

“No, trust me,” Julian said with a laugh, “Allowing me to take on your identity is a gift enough.”

Trefor leaned in closer to Julian, his breath ghosting over his lips, “Are you sure there isn’t _anything_ I can do for you?”

Julian felt his face heat again as he understood the double meaning behind Trefor’s words. “Oh, well, that’s well, that’s a nice idea.” Julian leaned in and gently closed the space between them and felt their lips meet. 

“Want to spend the night? I wasn’t to be expected at Ban Ard until the next morning,” Trefor asked as they broke apart.

“I haven’t exactly done this before,” Julian admitted. 

“We don’t have to go any further than you’d like,” Trefor said with that same easy-going smile. Julian smiled back as they headed back to his rooms together. 

It was a very happy and satisfied Julian that left the tavern the next morning. He had papers declaring himself Trefor Edgar Fairchilde in his pocket and a fancy calligraphy invitation to Ban Ard. Julian would have stolen Trefor’s clothes to sell the ruse even further but unfortunately, they had completely different builds. Julian prayed that no one at Ban Ard knew Trefor personally or he would be fucked. 

The looming walls of Ban Ard stood before him. It was built to be intimidating and to keep everyone without the blessing of magic far, far away. Julian took a deep breath in before squaring his shoulders and walking up to the guards at the gate. 

He presented his invitation to them brazenly. 

“Trefor Edgar Fairchilde at your service. I think you know what to do from here.” 

The guards seemed unimpressed with his attitude but let him cross all the same. A page stood inside the gates. 

“Follow me and I’ll take you to the Rector, Stregobor.”

Julian held his head high as he was led through the imposing hallways. Other young boys peaked out of side rooms at the newcomer and Julian mentally tried to prepare himself for the pretense of noble-hood and answering to the name of Trefor. 

They reached the end of a hallway after numerous twists and turns and Julian found himself in a mahogany study with instruments and books lining just about every wall. Behind the desk piled up with papers sat a man with greying ginger hair and a genial smile on his face. 

“Thank you page. Now, you must be the Honorable Trefor Fairchilde. Please, take a seat.”

Julian sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk and looked up at Stregobor. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Yes, and we here at Ban Ard are glad to have someone from your family finally attend this institution. This is a rather usual situation but given your father’s generous donation I am proud to welcome you to our halls.”

Here, Stregobor stood up and walked around the desk, motioning towards the hall. “I will show you to your room and give you a schedule. You shall begin classes tomorrow.”

Julian was led to an unassuming room with a nice bed and draperies, but nothing particularly eye-catching. It was just nice enough that a minor noble could not exactly complain about it, but it would not be overly comfortable. However, for a Witcher who was used to training in the woods for days and eating only fungi and mushrooms for years, well, this room would suit Julian just fine. 

The next morning, Julian arrived at his first class. He was wearing the standard Ban Ard Academy Uniform, a grey high-necked tunic where it was buttoned far off on the right side of his chest. There were gold accents on the buttons and the lining of the tunic itself. The long sleeves would hopefully protect him from the cold he could feel permeating the school. 

A man stood at the front of the room with a severe frown. They were told to levitate the rock in front of them using their chaos. Julian was already concerned about his cover. Theoretically, he could try and use a severely depowered Aard to lift the rock but there was a very high chance of Julian just sending the rock flying across the room. He also had to consider the lack of magical talent that Trefor would supposedly have. So, Julian spent the better part of the hour abjectly failing at moving the rock even an inch. 

Many of his classes went this way. Either because he was unable to use chaos the way they wanted him to or because using magic would reveal his very witchery technique. However, in potions, Julian did find himself excelling. Of course, this was one subject where you only needed the most passive of magic ability to activate the magic inherent in the ingredients and would, therefore, be very in-range for a boy like Trefor with little magical ability. It also fit Julian well because he had a particular love of potions. Often, he would spend the winters stocking up the potions kits of the older Witchers and even was able to sneak some of the mutagen processes out of the library. 

Time passed and Julian, or Trefor, became known as a quiet and studious boy. He was a loner and very angry due to being practically cut-off from his family but he was a hard-worker and even if he had the magical ability of a rock he was excellent at potions. Overall, Julian got the impression that while he was doing better at Ban Ard than the mages would have expected of Trefor Fairchilde, he was not suspiciously good. Julian did not even attempt to become friends with any of his classmates. There was another boy named Vilgefortz a year or so ahead of him who was polite, and they were able to have simple conversations about theory and coursework, but Julian specifically tried to keep his distance. 

Then the time finally came. Julian had been at Ban Ard for almost 6 months. He was technically 16 now, but as Trefor’s birthday had not passed his own went uncelebrated. The New Year was approaching when Stregobor held a meeting and announced the annual visit to Aretuza. 

“Every year,” he said, “some of our newcomers travel to our sisters in the southwest and we celebrate the New Year together and remember the bond of sorcery that holds us all together. And of course, it offers a great opportunity for our more enterprising scholars to visit their library, the largest collection of texts in the continent.”

Julian was almost shaking with excitement. He had spent months establishing himself as just the kind of scholarly student that would be perfect for this trip. When he heard the name ‘Trefor Fairchilde’ called out alongside seven other students from his class, he could practically feel his freedom calling. Not much longer now.

While Stregobor had been unable to find the grimoire while it was contained within his own wards, once Julian left Ban Ard Stregobor would be able to track its signature again. It would only become hidden once he was in Aretuza. Julian hoped that Stregobor wouldn’t be searching for it any longer as he had gone months without a lead, but he tried to prepare for the worst. The magic of the grimoire had been stagnant for enough time that it was likely already weak. 

The eight of them were bundled into carriages alongside a few instructors and off they were sent to Aretuza for the New Year celebration. It was Julian’s understanding that a few of the Aretuza girls were in return sent to Ban Ard. At least, Vilgefortz seemed excited about the idea of girls coming to visit them; he hadn’t gone to Aretuza himself in a few years when he was a first-year student. 

Julian spent most of the trip in a state of heightened anxiety and for the first time in years had trouble controlling his senses. He would get easily overwhelmed by particular noises and smells and he had desperately hoped that he had learned to control them years ago but the anxiety was causing him to slip. 

Aretuza was a massive fortress on the sea and above it all stood Tor Lara, the tower of the gulls. It was perfect. Built on both Elven and Mage land so no one could ever track it and Tor Lara wasn’t technically on Aretuzan land so if any mages ever did try and do a tracking spell specific to their academies it wouldn’t appear. Now, how to get there?

The answer ended up being much simpler than Julian could have expected. By the end of the stay on the New Year, most of the mages had been drinking or had found a partner for the night and there was almost no one on guard anyway. The situation was perfect. He snuck down deep into the caverns of Aretuza and found himself in some type of catacombs. He created markers in the sand so he could find his way back and began walking. It was difficult to keep a mental map in his head of where exactly he was in relation to the world above but eventually, he found himself walking into the cavernous ruins of Tor Lara which the Tower of the Gulls had been built on top of. 

He stopped in horror at what he found. Piles on piles of bones, skeletons of elves past. They were not just built into the foundation of the tower. They were the foundation of the tower. The bones of elves were known to be as strong as metal and not easy to break so theoretically they would last for thousands of years. It didn’t make the sight any less gruesome. Julian walked over to a pile of bones that was not built into the walls and saw that they hadn’t been disturbed in years. A fine layer of dust covered them completely. In fact, he was likely one of the only people to have been down here in years. Most oppressors didn’t like looking at the evidence of their folly. 

Julian opened his bag and took out his medallion and the grimoire. There was an indentation on the cover for a medallion. It was reserved for the keeper of the Grimoire. If the situation had been normal, Julian would be expected to carry the Grimoire on his person at all times and would feel the magic of the medallion through it. Now, he just laid the medallion onto the cover of the book and mourned the loss of the legacy of the Griffin Witchers. He carefully moved the bones and hid the Grimoire in between them. 

Between how abandoned this place was and the natural spellwork the grimoire had on it to subtly repel anyone who wasn’t a Witcher, Julian was quite sure of how safe it was. He stood up and brushed himself off. He hid his tracks as he went back up through the catacombs, following the markers he had laid out for himself earlier. 

He was coming up through the hallway that would lead him to the main antechamber where he could rejoin the celebrations when he heard a voice, or rather voices, coming his way. He quickly ducked back into the shadows and listened. 

“I think we can all agree that the Witchers are becoming especially bold as of late,” said a voice Julian recognized after months of hearing it. It was Stregobor. But what was he doing here? Last Julian knew he was staying behind at Ban Ard. Granted, there was nothing stopping him from portaling here. 

“Are they truly becoming bold Stregobor?” A woman’s voice asked, “Or are you simply embittered at our losses from Kaer Seren. We destroyed their keep but gained none of their knowledge. It went up in flames.”

“Ah, see but that is where you lose the mark. Their Grimoire remained active up until around 6 months ago when I lost track of it. I have yet to search for it again in the past few weeks, but it is still out there. All their magic, their secrets. They still survive on.”

“Are there any Griffins left?”

Jaskier couldn’t see what was happening but there was a pause in which Stregobor must have made some kind of motion. “There are a few, but I have already had men check them and they are either dead or worthless.”

“What of the other schools?”

“Those fools believe Kaer Seren to be an isolated incident. They worry not.”

“Then why do you push to attack now?” The woman pressed, “How are they being ‘bold’ in your terms?”

“That’s exactly the point,” Stregobor said, “They see themselves as better than the rest of us. They think that due to their mutations they are heroes, that they are worthy. They cannot even see how the public shuns them and grows ever hostile. If we want to establish ourselves as the ruling class of magic-users on the continent we need to strike now. We have spent years poisoning the minds of the common folk against those such as the Elves and the Witchers. Now is the time to strike. Who knows what knowledge we could amass?”

“The Elves as well? They are certainly more powerful than us.”

“At this moment, the Elves still hold the upper hand, but the Witchers do not. We can at least divide our enemy and stop them from banding together.”

“When do you suppose we ought to attack the remaining keeps?”

“Come back with me to Ban Ard, I have the plans in my office.”

There was the unmistakable sound of a portal and then the hallway was silent. Julian felt himself breathe again and when he reached up to his face he felt tears running down his cheeks. He was scared something like this would happen. He just wouldn’t have thought it so soon. He remembered the anger the villagers at Ysapden held and worried for the children at Kaer Morhen. He had to get back there. But he couldn’t just disappear here. And still, the fastest way to get to Kaer Morhen would be by traveling with the other boys tomorrow by carriage. He sank down to the stone floor and tried to control his breathing. His people were being hunted down by mages. Most of the Griffins were already gone and Julian wondered if any of his brothers were still alive. He did not sleep much that night.

Luckily, his sleep deprivation blended in well with the hungover Ban Ard boys and he got into a carriage with three other boys and they began riding back East. Julian was able to catch a few minutes of sleep here and there on the bumpy road but he couldn’t stop the fear worming its way through his heart. 

They were in between Ban Glean and Ban Ard suddenly the carriage halted. He looked out the small window and saw at least a dozen men surrounding the carriages. Fuck. 

The other carriage in front of them took off and it was just like mages to abandon their fellows. Their carriage had only three students besides Julian and the driver. Luckily, the driver had a sword and apparently knew how to use it and was already hacking away at the dozen bandits. Julian leaped out of the carriage and looked at the three boys behind him. 

“Come on!” He yelled, “We fight or we die here!”

The other three clambered out beside him and Julian greatly regretted not keeping up with his training in Ban Ard. His movements were sluggish and slow and it took him a lot longer than he was comfortable with to snatch a longsword from a bandit. A Witcher, almost being bested by a common thug. It was embarrassing. However, once Julian had a sword he was a maelstrom. One man came up behind him and he swung around, catching the other man’s swords before twisting it and slicing him through his abdomen. He looked around and in surprise saw that two of the boys and the driver had both been killed. Disappointing but not shocking considering that the most these boys could do was levitate rocks. Julian locked eyes with the other boy, who seemed to be sending off physical waves of energy to keep the bandits away and started working to dispatch the other six that were left. 

There was something thrilling about the battle, about the fight. It was almost like a warm-up inviting Julian back to his real-life, his real-self. He felt the mask of Trefor Fairchilde sliding off of him and he smiled. Julian cut down the few remaining bandits and turned around just in time to see the last bandit slit the throat of the final boy. Julian let out of range of anger and threw his sword, impaling the final rogue.

He looked around at the bloody almost-battlefield surrounding him and sighed. Well, he may as well use this opportunity to kill Trevor Fairchilde. He was close enough to Kaer Morhen that he should get there in time. He hoped. Julian then began the truly disgusting process of trying to fake his own death. He found the body of a bandit that looked the most similar to him in build and hair color and then shucked the corpse of its clothing and put it on himself, giving the dead man the mantle of Ban Ard. He then crushed a heavy rock on the man’s face to make it unrecognizable. Julian left the scene behind and gathered on the horses attached to the carriage. He swung up onto its back and set the other free. 

With a sharp kick to the horse’s side, Julian was off in the stolen and slightly bloody clothes of a dead man. He rode straight through the night, ignoring the pain in his legs and the panting of the horse. He passed through Ard Carraigh without even stopping for supplies. All Julian had on him was the stolen longsword and its scabbard. 

Was it too late? Would Julian go to Kaer Morhen and find the ruins of another school and the bodies of children? He hoped desperately he would make it in time to warn them. 

He saw the flames before anything else. It was night and Julian could see on the path up the Gwenllech river to Kaer Morhen, rows upon rows of torches. He felt himself shaking. This wasn’t the silent mages in the night that had taken his home. This was a mob. There must have been hundreds of people, nearly the whole village of Ysapaden hovering outside the gates of Kaer Morhen. Already, they were throwing burning torches and hurling expletives at the gates. Men stood hoisting a log back and forth, trying to tear down the large wooden door to the fortress. Julian was pushing his way through the crowd, at some point he had lost the horse, he was gasping for air, he couldn’t breathe. The other villagers paid him no mind but he could see the front of the mob, just out of reach. 

Julian broke through the crowd just in time to see the great gates of Kaer Morhen crumble and the villagers let out a cheer of delight as they began rushing it. There was a bloodlust in their eyes, an excitement at the genocide they were about to commit. It was the most horrifying sight Julian had yet to see. As it was, most of the Wolf-Witchers would be wintering here. Surely they would be able to defend their home? There were only perhaps 30 Witchers and 20 Children at the keep. Comparatively, there must have been at least 300 armed and bloodthirsty villagers. Through the gaps in the crowd, Julian saw the people running at the Wolves with no regard for themselves. 

A Witcher would hesitate for just a moment, not wanting to kill a human, and then they would be on them. The villagers would just pile onto a Witcher so they were unable to fight and then more would begin running the Witcher through with their pitchforks, their swords. The most horrifying part was that the villagers did not seem to care about what happened to them. They would cut each other, hurt each other, and yet they would keep pushing, piling their flesh up. They were suffocating the Wolves Witchers in their own blood. 

Julian saw once Witcher skewer a villager but then another just kept running at him and leaped onto his back, stabbing into his neck. He couldn't move, he couldn’t look away. How could the people be doing this to those who just wished to protect them? This was inhumane. 

Then, on a cliff a few meters from Julian’s perspective of horror in front of the gates, a mage stood in a cloak, surveying what they had wrought. Julian’s vision went red and with a strength he didn’t know he had left after riding for so long he sprinted up to the cliff and jumped, reaching for an outcropping. He pulled himself up onto the cliff and leveled his sword at the sorcerer. 

“You,” He growled out, eyes now golden and sharp. It was Stregobor. Of fucking course it was him. Who else had the mastery of illusion to convince these people to slaughter the keep?

“Who are you boy?” Stregobor asked he seemed annoyed to have been interrupted in his gloating, “Why are you up here instead of defending your home?”

Julian didn’t even bother to correct him. It was a war against all Witchers, no matter the school. 

“You did this,” he ground out, “you forced these people to kill.”

Stregobor laughed, “I merely amplified what was already there.”

Julian couldn’t stand it anymore. He let out an angry cry and charged at the mage. As he was about to reach him he found himself no longer on a cliff but rather in a void of endless darkness. 

“You wish to challenge me?” A voice echoed from the darkness around him, “Me? A master of the illusionary arts?”

Suddenly Julian felt a dagger slashing towards him and though he tried to duck, he felt the dagger cut deep. He fell to the ground and the world returned to normal. Stregobor stood over him, bloody knife in hand. He looked disinterested and shook his head. 

“I don’t have time for the grievances of a boy.”

Julian wanted to talk, to say anything, but his words were lost in a gasping of blood. He could barely move. Stregobor barely spared him a glance, clearly leaving him for dead, before portaling away. 

Julian tried to wrap his hands around his throat, to stem the flow of blood but he couldn’t put enough pressure onto his own throat and he felt himself growing weaker. His vision was going dark when suddenly he saw four or five boys appear out of the trees. 

“Look!” one of them shouted, “There’s another survivor.”

The last thing Julian remembered was staring into a matching set of golden eyes and a strong pair of hands holding his neck before the darkness fully overtook him. 

He couldn’t feel much. Julian’s head was swimming and he tried to sit up but a pair of arms held him back. 

“Don’t move,” a voice said.

He fell back asleep. 

Sunlight was shining into Julian’s eyes when he opened them next with any real level of consciousness. He was still in the woods, but there again four boys huddled around him. He didn’t recognize any of them but he could tell they were Witchers. One of them looked old enough to be on the path, but the others must have only just passed the trials. One of the boys was covered in the stench of piss and sweat that Julian recognized enough to know that that particular boy must have been in the middle of the trials when the keep was attacked. He was still unconscious and one of the others was standing guard over him. 

A boy with red hair noticed he was awake first, “He’s up!” He called and then walked over to Julian, “You are clearly a Witcher,” he said, “but I don’t recognize you, how did you get here?”

Julian cleared his throat and found it painful to talk but he persevered, “I’m a Griffin, I was coming to warn you but I was too late.”

The other boy sighed, “Clearly. You are lucky we found you when we did. Otherwise, you would have bled out right there on that cliff. If you want, we are waiting for the villagers to leave the keep before we go looking for anyone else.”

Julian thought about this. He could try and stay with the other Witchers, try to salvage what was left of their homes. He shook his head, “I can’t. I know that other schools are in danger and I have to try and help them. This is only the beginning.”

The other boy shrugged. As yes, even in the direst of times a Witcher was always a Witchers. Independent to the end. Julian asked for weaponry and was given both his steel longsword and a dagger. Nothing fancy, but doable and survivable. He took a small pack and a waterskin as well and left the survivors behind after thanking them for saving his life. 

Julian looked into the river on his way down from the mountain and in a fit of rage, cut off all his hair until it was cut down so that only the original brown showed, none of that falsified blonde. The wound Stregobor had inflicted on him had already begun to scar up and Julian thanked his lucky stars for the healing abilities of Witchers. It was a jagged scar that ran from the top of the back of his neck down to the tip of his clavicle. It covered most of the left side of his neck. With his brown hair cut close to the scalp, the angry golden eyes and the awful scar Julian now made for quite a sight. He stands up and vows to try and stop the mages from destroying everything left of the Witchers. 

He walks for days, only stopping to eat, piss, and sleep, and by the time he wanders into Tridan he is a disgusting mess. He wishes for a bath, for a lute to earn coin, or even a decent meal but he is granted none of these things. At least Julian still has a glamour to make his eyes a human-blue. Late in the night, Julian steals from the armory of the only noble in town and the smithy, outfitting himself in dark leather armor with a hooded vest on top and two swords. Both are steel. 

Julian goes on a rampage. He looks for any mages in whatever region he happens to be in. He hunts them down mercilessly and kills them without a second thought. One less mage to cast their superiority across the continent. He is trying to steadily move south in an attempt to go to the Bears in the Amell Mountains or the Vipers in the Tir Tochair Mountains. However, before he gets further south of Temeria, he hears of the Dyn Marv Caravan, the Cat Witchers being attacked in Aedirn. There were said to be at least 40 mages needed to take down the caravan. Cats fought dirty. The Bears and Vipers had both retreated, impossible to find. 

There was nowhere left for him to go. No more keeps to warn or to find sanctuary at. He had to do something to fight the mages, but he felt helpless. Julian continued to try and hunt down as many mages as he could, and many elven or dwarven communities even offered bounties on some mages. Still, Julian felt empty inside. The Age of the Witchers was over, and he could do nothing but watch it happen. The few Witchers that remained on the path were allowed to stay, as they no longer had the vast numbers they did before but were still needed to help vanquish monsters across the land. Most no longer had a keep. The knowledge of how to make new Witchers was lost from multiple schools. Some schools like the Cats and the Griffins were wiped from the continent entirely.

Still, the people allowed some Witchers to stay, albeit hated, for their own protection. Witchers were whispered about as beasts, as mutants that the mages had to put down. Their population had to be kept in check. They simply were not natural. Julian, like the coward he was, never identified himself as a Witcher to others. He kept the blue-eyed glamour up at all times around humans and though he felt the spell begin to drain on his magic, he ignored it. 

Julian learned from his encounter with Stregobor. Mages were the most dangerous when they saw you coming. Taking down a mage required stealth and a willingness to literally stab a man in the back. It tore at every moral Julian had installed in him by the Griffins but then he would remind himself that they were dead. Their morals no longer lived on due to mages. 

He spent years in a spiral of bloody contracts and Ale. He was yet to reach 20 and already felt the years of a man who had been alive for decades more. He never gave out his name and Julian couldn’t remember the last time he truly had a conversation with another person who wasn’t a barman he was shouting at or a client he was accepting a contract from. Julian spent his days pissed to the wind and his nights killing whatever mage someone wanted gone. The life he now led was aimless and pointless. 

Then, one spring in the town of Guleta, Julian was approached by an Elf. By this point, a full-scale war had broken out between the humans and the Elves. The few remaining Witchers stayed far out of the line of fire and had mostly gone underground. This particular tavern Julian was staying at was seedy and covered in grime. There weren’t many other places that would let a dirty and hooded man attempt to drink himself into an early grave. His hair was hanging down to his chin in greasy clumps and he was quite possibly the least appealing person in the tavern. Julian was nursing a half-full ale when a red-haired Elf with a beautiful green cloak sat down across from him. They clearly did not belong in the tavern, yet carried themselves with the confidence of someone who spent regular time in places such as this. 

“Are you Julian?” they asked in that musical lilt most elves put on for the sake of humans. 

He nodded and replied in Elder, _“That’s me.”_

Her posture relaxed and when she responded her voice was no longer musical, _“I’ve heard you have a particular skill for killing mages.”_

He grinned his sharp teeth, and because this was an Elf let his eyes flash cat-eyed gold from under his hood. _“And what of it?”_

_“We have a job for you.”_

She put a particular emphasis on we and this alone called to Julian. There was something special about this contract. Something different. Maybe this could be his way to make a difference. He quickly agreed and she showed him to the stables where she had not one but two horses ready. She told him her name was Adviel and she wanted him at Dol Blathanna a few rides away. 

Julian wondered what on Earth his use could be in the Elven capital but this was something to break the endless world he had been living in. The capital itself was gorgeous. It was a city built into cliffs and plantlife sprung from every corner. When the light caught the stones just right, they appeared to shine gold. It was almost an oasis and clearly the Elves worked hard to protect it. Adviel leading Julian to the palace was a surprise, but he should have expected something along these lines. 

He was told to wait outside a large door for a few moments while Adviel went in. A few minutes later she came out and motioned him in. 

Julian was led into a chamber where a large map of the continent was spread out over a round table and a dozen Elves were gathered around it. There were miniatures of troops and lines on the map. This was a war room. Adviel smiled at Julian and left the room. He stood there as a man with blonde hair strode over to him and held out his hand. 

_“My name is Prince Filavandrel aén Fidháil of the Elven Kingdom of Dol Blathanna. I’ve heard great things about you. My servant Adviel tells me you are fluent in Elder.”_

Julian had to stop himself from laughing as he took Filavandrel’s hand. Great things? All these years Julian assumed that he was merely surviving but apparently killing mages gave you a name for yourself. A name that was good enough to get the attention of a Prince.

 _“The invitation was appreciated.”_ Julian said, _“What exactly do you need my help with? I can only assume mage killing?”_

Filavandrel smiled, _“Something of the sort. Normally you go contract-by-contract but I would like to ask you to come work for the crown personally. You can only imagine how bloody this war is getting and if we had someone who could assassinate our enemies before they even entered the battlefield, well such a person would be invaluable.”_

 _“Let’s say I agreed to this,”_ Julian said, _“Why is a prince requesting this of me and not a king?”_

The smile dropped a little from Filavandrel’s face, _“My father views assassination as a lower form of war. My advisors and I,”_ he motioned towards the rest of the room, _“can see its necessity.”_

Julian was silent for another moment, considering but he already knew he would take it. This was practically what he had been asking for. For years, he had wanted to make a larger impact on the world and with the information, the crown could provide, Julian could target the mages doing the most damage and shift the tides of the war. 

_“Well,”_ Julian said, letting his eyes light up, _“arm me and point me towards the nearest bastard you need me to kill.”_

Filvandral smiled and they clasped hands in promise. 

Julian was led to a bath where he was given a rather pointed look by the guards leading him to his rooms and he washed off the grime he had accumulated over the past couple jobs and when he got out there were already clothes ready for him. Julian assumed his old clothes were probably making their way to a fiery end. He sighed as he felt the elven silk beneath his hands. There were truly no finer weavers on the continent. 

The rooms themselves were not particularly fanciful and Julian breathed a sigh of relief upon throwing himself down onto a bed where he wouldn’t have to worry about someone finding him or killing him in his sleep. It was a novel feeling. 

Julian spent the next few days finding his ground in Dol Blathanna dn familiarizing himself with the war. He understood it in the abstract but being involved on the ground floor so to speak with Filavandrel and his advisors was a novel experience. The King was at many of these meetings but Julian’s presence was never questioned and Julian wondered what exactly Filavandrel had told his father. 

They would spend long nights together talking about the war and what could be done to save magic from the mages. 

_“They’ve corrupted chaos,”_ Filavandrel said one night, sitting on a ledge overhanging one of the many cliffs of Dol Blathanna. There was no question as to who they were.

Julian nodded along as Filavandrel continued, _“I can feel it in the soil itself. They are synthetically enhancing it and twisting it to their wishes. They never ask, they merely take.”_

 _“They are polluting it,”_ Julian said. _“It’s their mindset, I noticed as much at Ban Ard. They view themselves as the only one worthy of having magic.”_

Filavandrel became angry at this, _“And who taught them their magic? We offered them our centuries of knowledge and what do they do? They throw it back in our faces.”_

 _“We have to stop them.”_ Julian said, _“They have already destroyed most of the knowledge Witchers have protected for centuries, I’m terrified your people are next.”_

Julian felt himself shaking a little as he spoke. It was the truth. He was worried that the mages would succeed and soon they would be seen as the only true chaos users on the continent. Simply because the Elves and the Witchers and any number of species used magic differently did not mean they were inferior. One day, there might only be one path to learning magic and that thought terrified him. 

_“I remember,”_ Filavandrel began, _“When I was a child humans would travel to Dol Blathanna regularly. They would attend our schools of magic and learn alongside us. It has only been in the past century that they stopped coming and have isolated themselves so.”_

Julian placed his hand over Filavandrel’s, _“One-day, we may be able to live like that again.”_

He looked over at the prince, caught up in the idea of the impossible, and watched the moonlight catch onto his platinum hair and it looked like a reflection of the moon. There was a feeling of kinship and understanding between the two of them and it was oh so easy to bridge the gap and fall into each other’s arms. 

The next week went by quickly. Filavandrel assured Jaskier that his armor would be done soon. In the meantime, they continued planning the movements of the mages’ army and their own warriors. They also spent a lot of time sparring. The sparring area was a flat white stone area on the roof of the palace. On three sides it was surrounded by sheer rock faces and the only thing stopping a terrible fall were white stone guardrails.

Filavandrel was one of the fastest opponents Julian had ever faced. Lately, Julian has been practicing with two dual blades, similar to those used by the Viper Witchers. They were ideal for stealth and close quarter combat. If it lessened his guilt about how far he had fallen from the Griffin code, well, that was simply a pleasant benefit. 

Julian began in a position with one sword held back and another in front of him. He pushed the front leg and held the other in a crouch. He cocked an eyebrow at Filavandrel and motioned to begin. From one moment to the next Filavandrel had almost vanished. He mostly used daggers when sparring and the moment he disappeared Julian whirled around and deflected a dagger off of his blade. 

Wherever Julian struck, Filavandrel had just left. The two of them were engaged in a deadly dance with Julian being the offense and Filavandrel the defense. Filavandrel was always just out of reach of the other’s blades. He took a step, and Julian’s sword whistled past where his torso was just seconds before. Julian began to close in but Filavandrel just seemed to move even faster. He jumped onto the railing, seemingly light as could be and avoided a swing of Julian’s sword with ease. He was unafraid of the immense drop before him. 

They were dancing together, twisting and turning and curling into each other. It felt planned and choreographed even if it was anything but. This was a challenge. Julian felt himself breathing hard. The sun caught in his eyes and he took a single misstep. Before he knew it, Filavandrel was behind him, a dagger to his throat.

 _“Surrender,”_ he said, breathing hot on Julian’s neck.

 _“Never,”_ Julian replied and turned around fully, capturing Filavandrel’s lips with his own. Their swords clattered to the crowd as Filavandrel pushed Julian up against the white banister, fumbling at his light armor. Julian pulled off the other’s leather tunic and was working at the strings on Filavandrel’s pants. He felt his shirt being pulled off his body and watched as the white fabric fluttered off into the abyss, carried by the wind. 

He felt Filavandrel press up against him and he let out an involuntarily moan. The prince was pressing lingering kisses up his neck and nipping as he did so. Between the sun and the wind and the Elven Prince currently pressing him against the edge of a cliff, Julian thought he just might be in heaven. 

The moment was interrupted by a cough and Filavandrel whirled around, the normally pleasant man furious at the interruption. It was a servant, a particularly stupid one. 

_“I was told to come to fetch Julian.”_ The servant replied, his voice full of fear, _“His armor is here.”_

They then ran off the roof, likely a smart idea. Filavandrel rolled his eyes. The mood had been destroyed. 

_“We will finish this later,”_ he said as he picked up his shirt and re-tied his pants. 

Julian groaned and elected to just wear the armor to his room with no shirt on underneath instead of walking around bare-chested. Of all times. 

They walked to his rooms in companionable silence and quite a number of servants were giving pointed looks as they passed through the hallways. Gossip never traveled faster than in a palace’s halls. 

Julian looked at himself in the mirror, admiring the armor that had been put together for his next venture. It was a dark black with a hood built into the shoulders that covered his entire head. There was a black lower half-mask that concealed his face. In fact, when the hood was up even his eyes were shrouded in darkness. Each section of the armor was intricately crafted and had indentations of vines on the vambraces. With the twin swords strapped to his hip, Julian admired the silhouette made by the intimidating armor. It was like forged midnight.

 _“Does it suit you?”_ Filavandrel asked.

Julian smiled unseen through the mask, _“I believe this will do perfectly.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If u wanna see Julian's armor it's basically the nightingale armor from Skyrim. ALSO I love the idea of Filavandrel and Julian hooking up all casually. Also yes I was basically picturing the Jasper and Alice scene from Eclipse when they were fighting 
> 
> Cause. I can. lemme know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian fights in a war

A man wearing a bright blue doublet was walking along a dirt road. He did not seem to be wearing any weapons and he had a happy and unguarded smile on his face. The man must be human, and a civilian to boot. These days, very few had the privilege of having an unguarded smile on their face. There was now an outright war with the Elves. Across the continent, people were told that the Elves had grown jealous of how powerful the mages had grown and had attacked a small contingent of student-mages, killing them all. This event began the Elven War. It was brutal, bloody and mages alone were not enough to fight it. 

There were perhaps, a few hundred mages on the continent and there were thousands of Elves. Even worse, there were rumors that the Elves had teamed up with the Witchers. Of course, most Witchers denied this and left themselves out of the war. After the destruction of most of the Witcher schools, the few who remained had retreated to lick their wounds. Still, the rumors persisted. Because the mages were so outnumbered and helpless, many of the kingdoms had offered their aid. Cintra was the first to do so, readying their soldiers and marching off to the East of the continent where the stronghold of the Elves lay. Then Redania, Temeria, and even Metinna all joined. 

With a few well-placed stories of the beaten-down mages and the hedonistic elves, the mages had all the support they needed. They no longer had to fight on the front line, but rather stayed as cozy commanders deep in the hearts of their camps. This made it infinitely harder for assassins and ne’er do wellers to bring them harm. This was not the shadowy war it had been before, with mages slowly taking land from the elves while humans stayed oblivious. Now, this was an outright battle for the survival of a species. 

But the man walking down the road did not know any of this. He had an open face, one that invited conversation. His long brown hair hung to his shoulders and while he had a beard on his face it was well-groomed, clearly implying good breeding and a means of wealth. His bright blue eyes matched the outfit he currently wore, and the lute slung across his back gave away his profession. 

This was a bard, a happy bright-eyed bard simply looking for travelers to entertain. However, in this part of the continent, there were no other travelers except the soldiers marching on. If you want to find an audience he knew he would have to find it in the arms of soldiers. It was a pleasant and sunny day. Perfect for someone to travel, and this road through Redania was well-marked. For someone like this bard, who had likely never traveled very far, it was both safe and secure. 

He spotted an encampment down the road with soldiers posted at the entrance. They bore the armor of Redanian soldiers. They must be on their way to the battlefront in Kaedwen. When they saw him, they immediately stood to attention, wary of a stranger’s approach. 

However, the man seemingly did not notice their hostile nature. He waved his arm and shouted out at them, “Hello there my good soldiers!” 

His disposition seemed to take them aback, however, as he walked closer the soldiers relaxed. This was simply a harmless bard. Many bards would pass through different encampments, lift the soldiers’ spirits and generally try and help them forget the war, just for a night. It was not an uncommon venture. The bards would get their coin and the soldiers their entertainment. It was a win-win scenario. The men at the gate easily let the bard through and he hurried through the way. 

One of the soldiers chuckled at the way the bard warily looked at his sword, likely the poor man had never used one himself. 

They began to escort him to their commander so they could set up a contract for the night. 

“Suppose you haven’t been performing long,” one of the guards said to the bard. 

He smiled and said, “I haven’t actually. I’m from Novigrad and this is the first time I’ve traveled alone, let alone had to work as well. It’s an interesting experience.”

The soldier gave a loud laugh, there was almost a grating quality to it, “I’ll tell you an interesting experience boy, fighting on the frontlines against those pointy bastards. Fucking elves.” 

He spit on the ground to accentuate his point and the man nodded along. They passed through the heart of the camp and many soldiers became excited at the prospect of a bard, they hadn’t had one come through their camp in a few weeks and the men were excited. They reached the seemingly small tent where their commander was at and the soldier motioned the bard inside. 

“Thank you,” he said as the flap closed behind them. 

Then the bard took a good look inside and the soldier always loved to see people’s expressions as they realized the tent was bigger on the inside. It was lavishly decorated and while the soldier did feel slight jealousy at how many of his men barely had enough food yet their commander sat comfortably in their realm of leisure, well, it was not his place to comment on such things. 

Still, the soldier had small pleasures such as watching the young bard gape at the space in front of him. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said and reached out to touch a slowly spinning globe. 

Just as his hand was about to touch it a voice rang out, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The bard turned and saw their Commander. Her name was Brunhilda and she wore the rich robes mages tended to prefer. While she was beautiful with her long brown hair and emerald eyes, her soldiers saw her as the deadly force she was. Brunhilda had a special hatred for the elves and her plans always saw them destroyed. The soldier had to admire her efficiency, although part of him raged at how many men her plans often cost him. The price for defeating the elves had to be paid in blood. 

“Commander,” the soldier began, “new bard here to perform, says his name is…” he trailed off, realizing he did not actually know the bard’s name. 

“Dandelion,” the bard put forth. He gave a sweeping bow and looked up at the Commander. “And might I say, this is the first encampment I’ve been to but certainly you must be one of the finest mages on the continent.”

She looked him over, unimpressed, “Flattery will get you nowhere Bard, and might I say, if you had touched that globe it likely would have spit you out somewhere over the ocean.”

Dandelion’s smile dimmed and for a moment, the soldier felt bad for him. The commander was brutal and took to flattery like a fish to climbing mountains.

“Apologies commander,” Dandelion said. 

The commander walked over to Dandelion, looking him up and down, taking in his wide-eyed smile and fancy clothing. Then she looked right into his eyes, searching for something. Whatever she found must have pleased her because she looked away and went back to some papers on the desk. 

“Well, my men do need cheering up, I will pay you the standard 50 Ducats per night of entertainment as well as board. This soldier will show you where you can stay. You can collect your money from the quartermaster once you leave.”

She waved him off, clearly tired of this conversation. Honestly, she would likely be happy if she didn’t need to give the go-ahead for the bard at all, but it was just a security precaution for newcomers to be brought to the commanders. The soldier was a little hurt that she didn’t even care to know his name, but it was expected given her standing. He shrugged off feelings of inadequacy and led the bard back out of the tent. 

The sun was blinding for a moment, many mages liked their tents darker until his eyes adjusted. 

“Follow me,” the soldier said, “I’ll show you where you can sleep, and then we can head over to where you’ll be performing.”

“Thank you, good sir,” the bard said, his jovial tone coming back a bit after the biting remarks from the commander. 

“You are being very gracious hosts, why room and board, I might be wondering if I should be paying you!”

Dandelion laughs and the soldier finds himself relaxing. He leads Dandelion to the barracks where the bard sets his traveling pack down on an empty cot and then grabs his lute case as he heads out. 

The soldier leads Dandelion through the camp, pointing out where the kitchens, armory, things of that nature are. The bard nods along, but the soldier can tell he isn’t really interested. Of course, he wouldn’t be. He’s a bard. 

“Here we go,” the soldier says as he motions to a clearing. There’s a bonfire in the center and plenty of room for the men to gather around and the soldier can already imagine the festivities that will occur here tonight. 

“This is perfect!” Dandelion replies, he begins walking around the clearing, inspecting it for things the soldier cannot begin to imagine, “The grass, the open space, the fire, the perfect ambiance. Oh, my performance tonight will be legendary!”

“I’m sure it will be. I can take you to the mess for some food before you perform.”

The bard’s eyes light up at the thought of food, “Perfect again!” he says, following the soldier into the camp, “The sun will likely be setting by then and I can begin my triumphant performance.”

“The men will be overjoyed, we haven’t had a bard perform in weeks.”

“Well, good thing I am here now! Clearly, you are in need of good entertainment.”

At the mess, the soldier gets them both bowls of porridge and while many would scoff at the food, Dandelion is as excited as always. The soldier imagines that the bard had not been eating as well on the road as he had been at home. He was likely from a merchant family. Many different soldiers crowded around them, listening to the bard as he told stories of his travels. 

“I was walking through Prana when an old woman stopped me. She gave me a special tea that she said would grant me wisdom beyond my years. I took it, hoping for musical inspiration. All it gave me was the shits.”

The men laughed and one of them joined in with a story of their own, “I’ve been fighting this here war for a year now and let me tell you when the Redanian army first came to my village asking for recruits I could not believe them. I had never even met an elf, but then this woman comes through, and would you believe it? She’s the commander. A mage-lady. I get one look at her and, fuck, I signed up right there.”

Most laugh but the Soldier smacks the man upside the head, “You idiot,” he says, “that’s our commander you are talking about, show some respect.”

The other man rubs his head and casts an annoyed look at the soldier. Still, dinner is soon done and while the sun is closer to having set than being in the process the bard gets out his lute and begins to tune it. His voice is rich, bright and loud, projecting across the clearing with little issue. Of course, as the men fill up the clearing the bard might have to work a little harder but simply listening to him sing is entrancing. 

The men light a roaring bonfire and drinks flow freely as the bard begins with a rowdy drinking song that gets the men up and dancing. He sings songs that let the crowd join in and even songs that hold bridges where drinking contests are supposed to take place. It is a fun and loud night. The men are celebrating late into the evening and the bard shows no signs of exhaustion. The soldier wonders at this for a moment because surely a bard like Dandelion without much experience performing cannot be that new with this much talent at wooing a crowd, but the soldier pushes the thought out of his mind. 

Many of the men are drunk enough that it will hurt in the morning and by the time they all retire to men, many fall into a deep sleep almost at once. The soldier himself is a light sleeper, always has been. He is woken by a single snap of a twig. 

The soldier opens his eyes slowly and gets out of his. He goes to the door flap of the barracks and pulls it aside. What he sees sends him falling back onto his ass. 

It’s the Nightingale Prince. His black armor almost blends into the night, making him look more beast than man and his golden eyes reflect the torches’ light, making them glow. He has two swords held out in front of him and when he catches sight of the soldier, he quickly knocks one of the torches over, lighting a nearby tent on fire and begins to run. 

The soldier is terrified, the man of nightmares is here and he saw his swords, saw the blood on them and knew what had happened but he can’t bring himself to scream. It’s a few moments before he is able to shake himself out of his terrified stupor to shout, “THE NIGHTINGALE PRINCE IS HERE.”

He bellows it out as loud as he can as many times as he can and soon others are surrounding him. Many run off to see to the fire which is beginning to spread while many others surround him, asking question after question. 

“Where did he go?”

“What did he looked like”

“Did he get the commander?”

The man just points in the direction the Nightingale Prince had gone and soldiers begin running that direction, holding onto their swords. The soldier almost hopes they don’t find him. They would never stand a chance based on what he's heard. 

Soon, he’s relatively alone, or more accurately no longer accosted. There are men surrounding him in the chaos the camp has become but the soldier has one objective. He begins walking towards the commander’s tent, already knowing what he would find. 

The scene is grisly but not unexpected. The walls are scorched with spellfire and the many wonderful and lavish objects Brunhilde had are now broken on the floor. She had put up a fight. However, in the end, The Nightingale Prince had won and he saw his decapitated body lying near the foot of her bed. The soldier shook his head. 

By this point in the war, everyone knew of the Nightingale Prince and had gone to fear him. He snuck into different encampments and assassinated the mages commanding the different troops. He would pose as a traveling bard and he was said to have the voice of a Nightingale, gorgeous and rich. That was why every bard had to be screened by the commanders personally. The soldier didn’t understand how the Nightingale Prince had gotten past them. Clearly he had been the bard from earlier but the soldier had done everything right. He had brought the bard to the commander and she had given him the go-ahead. 

How did she not recognize him? In fact, the soldier himself had spent hours with the man, surely he could remember his face to tell the others. No other reports had any details such as his hair or eye color. Only the quality of his voice. But try as he might, the soldier couldn’t remember anything about the bard he had let into the camp earlier. Not his name, face, coloring, or even tone of voice. It was as though he had all the trappings of man but none of the substance. 

Perhaps some of the reports were right, perhaps the Nightingale Prince really was some sort of ghost or monster. The soldier looked once more at the body of his commander and sighed. They would not be able to press onto the battlefield now. Try as he could, he couldn’t remember anything about the details of who the Nightingale Prince was. No details, save for that hauntingly beautiful voice. 

* * *

Julian ran away from the encampment, cursing his rotten luck. He hadn’t meant for that soldier to see him and setting fire the camp had not been in his plan. This was why Filvandrel had given him the obfuscation spell. No matter how hard they tried, no one would be able to remember him in any detail. He tried to avoid killing humans where he could. Without a mage commanding them, they were often sent home until they were snapped up again by another mage.

He was out of breath by the time he reached his horse that he had tied up during the day. She was about a mile away from the camp and he quickly got onto her and rode away as fast as he could. 

Julian had heard his epithet being yelled out as he ran out of the camp. It was not a name he would have necessarily chosen for himself but it had stuck. Originally it was the Prince’s Nightingale as he was known as the Prince of the Elve’s master assassin that disguised himself as a bard. However, some brilliant soul had taken to saying the Nightingale Prince as it rolled off the tongue just a bit better, and then there was no escaping the name. Luckily, no one had connected him as a Witcher yet. While the golden eyes would normally be a shining beacon as to his identity, no one had ever seen his face and not a single WItcher left would have claimed him.  
There weren’t any Witchers who knew who he actually was and Julian had yet to come across any, thank the gods. He didn’t like to think about what they might do to him. They likely thought him a Viper who had gone rogue. 

This was the final mage he had cut down carving his bloody path back to Dol Blathanna. Julian had already killed 7 other mages, all of them well-guarded. Each time, he wondered if they would see through his genial disguise, know the assassin that lurked underneath but every time without fail, they were fooled. Even with the information that the Nightingale Prince used the disguise of a bard, they still never expected the open, seemingly harmless man he pretended to be.  
However, even though the work was bloody and awful, there was something freeing in pretending. He had been on this path for almost a decade now and it wore him down. Julian was tired. But when he put on a mask and charmed soldiers with his music and told stories by the fire, well, he felt the polite, well-mannered Griffin return just a tiny bit. He would remember his friends long dead and smile. 

He reached Dol Blathanna on time and was greeted warmly by the guards at the gate. By this point, he had removed the charm that held the obfuscation spell and changed into his more comfortable traveling clothes. Over the past decade, a chill had taken hold of the capital and there was no longer an air of leisure as there had been before. Now, Elves scurried from place to place, eyes downcast and frightened. Their people were being hunted and Dol Blathanna was one of the few strongholds of the Elves left in the Continent. It was one of the few places that was left free. 

Julian headed down the marble halls and reached the doors that led to the war-room. At first, the King had believed Julian to be a hired guard for Filavandrel, extra security, but as the War grew ever grim and the mages ever stronger, the Prince had felt it right to expose Julian as his personal assassin. Now, he was openly welcomed in the court.

There, hunched over maps and looking exhausted as though he hadn’t slept in days, was Filavandrel. The war had taken its toll on him. His skin looked waxen and unwashed. 

As Julian walked in, Filvandrel’s eyes looked up to meet his and a tired smile moved onto his face. Julian walked over and laid a gentle kiss onto his lips. 

“ _There you are darling_ ,” he said in Elder. 

Filavandrel smiled, “ _I’m so glad to see your safe return. I heard more news about the ‘Nightingale Prince’. They are out for your blood you know?”_

Julian chuckled and moved so that he was also looking down at the maps spread across the large table, _“If they can catch me. Not a single mage has come close. I’m too quick and I fight dirty.”_

 _“Now, that,”_ Filavandrel said with a smirk crossing his face, “ _I know.”_

He looked over the maps and his brows drew together, his face growing darker. 

“ _How’s the front looking?”_ Julian asked, worried. 

_“We are losing,”_ Filavandrel said succinctly.

_“No matter how many individual mages you kill they never keep more than one mage together at a time, spreading themselves out over miles and miles. This is assuming they don’t just teleport away at the slightest hint of danger. They let the humans do their fighting for them and while we are proficient fighters we simply do not have the numbers to keep this up in the long-term.”_

_“If it helps, the human soldiers are growing tired.”_

_“It does help, a little. But we cannot continue this way. We are going to have to sacrifice much of our territory if we want to keep Dol Blathanna safe.”_

Filavandrel looked around and lowered his voice so that no one else in the room would hear them. Even Julian with his enhanced hearing could only hear it at a whisper. 

_“We would have received Dwarven aid from Mahakam but a mage-only contingent laid siege to the gate and they are trapped within, of course, they are a self-sustaining nation and are not in danger for themselves but we have no hope of rescue from their end. Tir ná Lia has fallen. We are the only Elven city left. If our wards do not hold…”_

He did not have to finish his sentence. Julian felt his stomach drop. All these years and the war was reaching its conclusion. They were not going to win. At best, they could all retreat to Dol Blathanna and hope to hide from the mages but that would signal the city as the only stronghold left and they would attack it full-force. There was nothing left. 

Julian felt his breath hitch and looked around at the other generals and councilors in the room. Did they know? Even now, were they trying to create contingency plans, trying to evacuate who they could? Some elves could try and hide among humans but it surely wouldn’t last. 

He looked over at Filavandrel, _“What can we do?”_

Walking down a dark hall, Julian considered Filvandrel’s place in the court. The prince knew how dangerous the mages were and understood that their defeat was nigh. However, many saw him as a fear-monger and refused to listen. That left the prince with little support and a suspicious glance at every turn. In many ways, Julian was his closest confidant and they spent much of their time apart. 

A door opened and Julian was led into a small chamber where a few elves waited. When Filavandrel entered the room they leapt up. 

_“Is this him,”_ a young man with bright purple eyes and brown hair asked. 

_“Yes, it is,”_ Filavandrel responded. He turned towards Julian, _“As you might imagine, one of the contingency plans I have is integrating as many citizens as possible quietly into the human world. With some subtle magic, many of us can pass for humans. Mael here is half-human and has been leading this secret program.”_

_“My father would consider this the highest act of treason. He would see this as me sending away our people and giving up. I see it as survival.”_

He looked over at Julian, _“I can feel it you know. Chaos is breaking apart, not responding the way that it should. It feels...corrupted for lack of a better term. Mages are pushing the world out of balance and the world is pushing back.”_

Another elf walked forward, _“I’ve been looking at the patterns of beasts attacking villages and killing humans and they have grown exponentially more common. It’s as though the continent itself is punishing humans for their treatment of chaos.”_

Julian gave a rueful smile and said, _“What an unfortunate time to have killed the majority of the Witchers.”_

 _“This is where it gets interesting,”_ Mael said, _“You see, the mages created the first Witcher almost 200 years ago but once they created them the Witchers formed their own guilds and schools and cut the mages off entirely. We think they destroyed the Witchers because they couldn’t stand to see something they considered theirs gain autonomy. The mages know, however, that they need the Witchers or the continent will be overrun. Already, you may notice the lack of kill-orders on Witchers. Yes, they are still hated but they are largely tolerated due to the purpose they serve.”_

 _“But there are no new Witcher being made,”_ Julian said.

“ _There aren’t any new Witchers no,”_ Mael agreed, _“But there are certainly plenty of survivors, enough to protect the general populace.”_

Julian felt his fists clench. He imagined there must be surviving Griffins but he hadn’t heard of any. Throughout the taverns and encampments he stayed at, he kept his ears to the ground for stories of Coën or anyone else he knew but he had heard nothing. It was difficult to imagine his friend’s survival. He thought of the bodies he had seen slaughtered at Kaer Morhen. There couldn’t have been many survivors there either. 

_“But this isn’t why we are here,”_ Filvandrel said, _“You are the best when it comes to subterfuge and hiding in plain sight. I need your help to coordinate where we can send Elves to hide if the worst occurs.”_

Mael jumped in, _“I already have groups I’ve been training personally to blend in with human society, their families too.”_

The man blurred for a moment and when Julian looked again he was looking at a man in his early thirties with brown eyes and completely lacking the aura that most elves gave off. His ears were round and he looked, well, completely normal. He spoke in common. 

“My mother was a druid so I have great practice at being human. The only danger is getting caught out or losing the object we anchored the glamours too. Many elves are taking to it like a duck to water. What we need help with is knowing where to hide. Many of us haven’t been outside of Dol Blathanna in years.”

Julian looked over the map, considering. “Is everyone here fluent in common?” He asked the other three in the room after everyone nodded he began speaking while looking at the map. 

“You need to find places where there is already a strong cross-cultural exchange or is a settlement town. That way you can cast off any peculiarities as foreign oddities and they will take less notice of you. Adopting an accent from a different region would be even more helpful in this venture. Rural communities like Vengerberg where families travel from far away to farmland and build a settlement or cities like Vizima where you can find people of a dozen different nationalities on any given street are perfect.”

“How on earth would we get there?” one of the elves spoke up.

“I suppose,” Julian looked over at Mael questioningly, “if you have the supplies you could pretend to be refugees fleeing attacks from the Elves. It would fit the narrative most people are expecting anyone.”

There was a general sense of anger at the indignity this charade would cause but Julian couldn’t think of another solution at the moment. He was sure Mael or Filvandrel could come up with one. 

“The important question is,” he asked the small group, “Are you ready to leave at a moment’s notice? The mages are closing in, Dol Blathanna will soon fall. You have to prepare for departure.”

Filavandrel looked over at Julian and his face held anger, “We cannot leave our people to suffer while there is still hope. Our first move is to try and lockdown Dol Blathanna. Leaving is a last-resort.”

Julian acquiesced. He was not their Prince. He held onto Filvandrel’s hand to calm him down and noticed it was shaking. 

“I don’t know how much time we have left,” the Prince said. 

They spent the next few hours discussing more contingency plans and possible escape routes for the city. There couldn’t have been more than 100 elves included in this entire plan which was a small fraction of people in the city, but if the worst were to come and pass, this was all the hope they had. It was also a large number to keep secret from the King. Teaching Elves to blend into human society? It would be considered treasonous. The King would see it as a destruction of their very culture. 

Late into the night, Filavandrel and Julian retired to their chambers. They were both exhausted.

 _“Is this why you look so tired, darling?”_ Julian asked, _“You stay awake all day fighting the war and all night planning your people’s survival?”_

Filvandrel sighed, _“I am fighting a war on two fronts, with my father’s ignorance and the mages that seek to destroy us. I...I haven’t told the others this but I think my magic is losing its potency.”_

He tried to call the vines in the ceiling down to the bed but they barely grew at all, _“I think we are either being warned or punished. I don’t know when but I fear the war will end soon.”_

Julian sighed and cuddled up in Filavandrel’s side, _“No matter what comes to pass,”_ he said, _“I’ll be by your side.”_

The end would come sooner than either of them thought. Julian had spent the past few weeks recuperating at Dol Blathanna. Well, recuperating in the sense that he was no longer on the road. He spent nearly all of his free time talking with Mael and the others, helping them plan how to travel to different human cities and integrate themselves in the cultures there. It was exhaustive work and more than once Julian would send Filavandrel to sleep while he stayed up and worked. The elven armies had kept the fronts going North to Kaedwen but they were losing ground in Termeria rapidly. 

Then, a month into Julian’s return to Filavandrel’s side he woke up in the early morning to the very foundations shaking. He sprang up out of bed and dressed in his armor, the Prince alongside him. It only took a few minutes but the shaking had grown even worse.

 _“What’s happening?”_ Julian cried out. 

_“I don’t know,”_ Filavandrel returned, _“but I think it’s time to gather the others. I’ll go to my father.”_

They ran out of the rooms and stopped briefly to share a frantic kiss before running opposite directions, Filavandrel to the throne room and Julian to the dungeons. Mael and the others were already waiting for him. 

_“The mages are inducing some sort of Earthquake,”_ Julian said, _“I’ve seen similar tactics used before.”_

He tried not to think of his room, crumbling into the earth and this one following it. He tried not to think of children dying across the continent for nothing more than their use of magic. 

_“We need to leave. Now.”_

He hurried out of the dungeon, through a small side door and the three of them came out into a large warehouse-like catacomb where a small gathering of around 80 elves stood. Julian assumed they couldn’t find the full 100. Hopefully, some found another way. 

Mael stepped to the front, _“Everyone! We have planned for this, go into your assigned groups, and begin heading for your final destination. Take the tunnels, I repeat do not go above ground!”_

Elves began to disperse except for a small group of five. A woman stepped towards Mael, holding a small child in her arms.

 _“We are the contingent going to Vengerberg,”_ she said, _“we cannot take the tunnels the full way out of the city.”_

Julian stepped forward, _“That is why I am here,”_ he said, _“I can take you to safety, stay behind me and I will protect you.”_

The woman searched over his armor, clearly recognizing him and nodded, gesturing for her wife and children to follow behind him. 

Julian looked back at Mael and the others, _“Will you be able to find your way to safety?”_

Mael shook his head, _“We are going back for our Prince.”_

They headed back up the staircase towards the throne room and Julian clenched his teeth and tried to focus on the present moment. There were people here he needed to protect. He could not afford to think about Filavandrel’s fate. He headed down the tunnel with a short, _“Follow me.”_

The woman had been right. The tunnels ended abruptly and a ladder showed the way to the surface but they hadn’t walked for nearly long enough to be out of the city and into safety. 

He turned around, _“I don’t know what we are going to be facing up there but it isn’t going to be pretty. I need you guys to run fast and stay as close to me as possible. Do any of you have weapons.”_

The women nodded and one pulled out a sword while the one who had addressed him earlier showed him a bow, _“We are handy enough with these.”_

 _“Good,”_ Julian said, _“remember, be fast, and don’t look back.”_

With those oh so inspiring words Julian pushed up the hatch and moved into the moonlight. 

It was a bloodbath. There were portals opening and closing throughout the entire battlefield. They had just walked out into a flat region of Dol Blathanna but Julian could see the cliffs that the palaces and homes were built onto in the distance. Underground, the shaking had stopped but up here he felt the earth moving again. It was nothing compared to what it had been in the palace. On the cliff tops of the palace, Julian could see cloaked mages standing, arms stretched out wide, chanting. It was eerily reminiscent of what had happened to Kaer Seren and he had to look away so he wouldn’t be distracted. 

He narrowly avoided a mage thrusting a sword at him and he swung and blocked with his twin blades. It was a short fight as most mages relied on magic more brute strength. However, this particular mage must have overused their magic and had to rely on their swords instead. Poor decision. He turned around and saw the two elven women hiding their children between them as they cut down mages surrounding them. He motioned for them to keep moving forward, and the bow worked as a good motivator for many to keep their distances. 

Luckily, most mages were engaged in battle already so they could move through the carnage quickly. Julian wanted to stop and join the fighting but he had charges to protect. They were his first priority. A portal appeared directly in front of them and a mage stepped out. Immediately after an Elven warrior followed them. They must have come from another front. Why on earth would they travel between fronts? Unless....the battle had already been won near Kaedwen. 

The small group continued as Julian cut down mages with ruthless efficiency, making full use of his signs like he hadn’t in ages. 

A group of mages had caught onto them and were growing close. Julian cast a harsh Aard and threw them back as far as he possibly could. Finally, tired and exhausted they reached the city walls. The battle was being fought near the center of the city so they were relatively safe here for a moment. 

He turned towards the small family, “Run as fast as you can,” he said in common, “I know you have trained for this, protect your family.”

“And you Nightingale?” the woman said, “Where are you going?”

Julian turned around as he made his way further back to the center of Dol Blathanna, “To try and protect mine.”

With the assurance of family’s safety, he ran back in, using speed to avoid the majority of mages on the outskirts. He needed to try to get to FIlavandrel. Unfortunately, just as he caught sight of the palace, he was accosted by two mages who seemed plenty ready for a fight. 

He twisted out of the way of a vicious stream of fire and placed his hand on the ground, casting Yrden. Then, he stood up and retreated quickly, smiling when the mages followed his movements and one of them got caught in his trap. 

The mage was immobilized and Julian quickly threw a dagger that imbedded itself in his neck. The other took no notice of this and again cast a stream of fire towards Julian. He met this with an overpowered Igni which this time pushed the fire away.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘fighting fire with fire’?” Julian quipped, flipping out of the way of a blast of concussive magic. 

“Now, that’s just rude,” he said, “I’m here all on my ownsome and you won’t even have a conversation with me.”

The mage roared and grew angry at his cavalier attitude, levitating a large piece of rubble and throwing it his way.

“Alright, not much of a talker I see. I can work with that,” Julian said as he again spun out of the way. He was hoping to simply exhaust his opponent. Then, at that moment, the shaking ground stopped. It had been so constant over the course of the fight that it caught both the mage and Julian off guard. 

The mage through a sickly smile his way, “Looks like playtime’s over boy,” he said.

Then the city fell. Every home, building, even the majestic white palace, everything built into the cliffs began to crumble away. It was as if they had turned to sand all at once. This must have been the end result of whatever spell the mages had been casting. It had taken them a long time to break through the wards protecting the buildings but once they did…

Dol Blathanna was gone, destroyed, and literally turned to dust. The last stronghold of the Elves was over. Julian felt more than his own anguished cry. Had Filavandrel been in there still? Had he escaped? 

The mage hadn’t used this chance to kill him. When Julian looked over to the mage he saw that his skin was glowing with an orange glow. 

“It’s time,” the mage was saying, “the final destruction of the Elves is upon us, we are FREE!”

In the distance, Julian saw an explosion of fire, reaching high into the sky, destroying the flatlands surrounding the cliff-homes. He then knew what the mage was planning to do. The insane man was planning on overloading his chaos and blowing himself up! 

He began to run but had barely made it a hundred meters before an explosion sent him flying. He hit his head and knew no more. 

* * *

When Julian woke up, he couldn’t see. For a moment, he panicked, hands trying to claw at his eyes but his limbs felt heavy and he could hardly move. 

“Don’t,” a soft voice that Julian recognized said, “You’ll make it worse.”

It was Mael which meant, “Filavandrel,” Julian said, “Did he survive, did he make it out?”

His lack of sight was concerning but Julian was more concerned about Filvandrel’s fate. He heard a whooshing noise and then a hand grabbed onto his. 

“I’m here,” Filavandrel said, and Julian felt a relief course through him.

“Oh thank gods,” he said, “What happened, where are we?”

He couldn’t see what was going on but there was a pause as if he was trying to find the right words to say. 

“Dol Blathanna is gone. We are hiding in the tunnels under the city that the mages were unable to find. Your face was injured in one of the blasts the mage-suicides caused and immense damage was done to your left eye. We healed it as best we could but cannot take the bandages off just yet. My father….my father is dead.”

Julian could hear the pain in FIlavandrel's voice. While they had their differences of opinion his father did not deserve to die at the hands of mages. And now, Filavandrel was kind of a dead nation with few survivors. It was quite possibly the worst way to inherit a crown. 

“I’m so sorry,” Julian said in complete sincerity.

Filavandrel squeezed his hand tighter. “We barely managed to escape the palace before it fell into the abyss. My father was killed in the throne room trying to hold the wards together. He died a hero.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to try and find survivors, help the remains of my people. We need a way to live here, to survive.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“For now, you need to rest and focus on healing. My...my coronation is in a few days and I hope you healed enough to see it.”

He let go of Julian’s hand and stood up, “I will be back, right now I had to go see my people.”

“Go,” Julian said as Filavandrel left the room. 

Mael was back and explained to Julian that they could assess the damage to his eyes tomorrow but until then would have to keep the bandages on. They had changed his clothes, but his armor was mostly intact. It had a few scratches and nicks but nothing that couldn’t be stitched back together. 

The rest of the day passed in a drug-induced haze and when Filavandrel came back, hours later, and sank into the cot beside Julian he felt the weight of his partner’s exhaustion. He pushed himself to the ends of the world for his people, even when he knew how little hope they had. 

The next day, Filavandrel stood by Julian as Mael pulled away the bandages. Julian felt the light re-entering his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. They removed them slowly, letting his eyes readjust in increments but when they were finally removed Julian blinked a few times. The vision in his left eyes was clouded and limited. He couldn’t see the full range of motion.

“I can see,” he relayed to Mael, “my left eye is...limited, but my sight is still present for the most part.”

“That’s good,” Filavandrel said. 

Mael looked his left eye over and Julian flinched as Mael made contact with the sensitive skin around it, “I was very worried. You are going to have some scarring here but we’ve mostly healed it. It’s not as bad as it could have been.”

He handed over a small mirror to Julian who looked into it. He breathed a sigh of relief. There was a scar cutting across his left eyebrow into the corner of his eye and ending shortly beneath it. It was less obvious than he would have expected and he still had the majority of his vision in his left eye as well. 

“The worst outcome from the explosion was the concussion,” Mael said, “The scar was from you landing on rubble. Unfortunately, you are now likely to draw some stares shirtless. There was extensive scarring on your back. You shouldn't suffer any muscle damage. ”

Julian tried to turn the small hand mirror around to look at his back but Filvandrel leaned over and pushed his hand down.

"Wait a moment."

He waved his hand and the wall behind Julian became a reflective surface and he could fully see scarring that now covered most of his back. It was the worst near his shoulder blades, entire swathes of skin now raised and curdled into pink scars. At the edges of his shoulders, were sharp spikes in the scars, branching out like a starburst. There were patches of burn scars all the way down near his lower back. It was as if a miniature sun had been branded onto his skin. The skin felt tight but in a few days, it would likely heal. 

“Looks like I’ll be able to watch you coronation after all,” Julian said. He leaned in and gave a soft kiss to Filavandrel. 

“I’ll see you there,” the soon-to-be King said and got up and left the small room. 

Julian looked over at Mael, who seemed to have nothing on his person but a small bag. 

“I need to tell you something,” he said, looking over at Julian, “I’m leaving. Before the coronation.”

He sat there, shocked, “Why?”

“I’m going to Vengerberg,” Mael said, “to live among the humans there, maybe find Vivian and her wife. I can’t stay for the coronation. I have to begin thinking of myself as human. I’m already half-human. I just have to continue to ignore my heritage.”

“Will you be safe?”

Mael gave Julian a look as though his brain had fallen on the floor, “As safe as an elf hiding in a village of humans can be I suppose.”

Julian stood up with difficulty and gave Mael a warm hug. “I hope you stay safe. I will try and find you one day, you better be there or I will hunt you down in the afterlife.”

Mael rolled his eyes, “Oh Julian, I’ll try my best.”

They walked out of the room and at a fork in the tunnels Julian said goodbye to someone he had come to see as a close friend in their time together. It was a bittersweet parting. He could only hope his friend would stay safe in Vengerberg. 

Julian turned towards where the coronation would be held and walked into a small amphitheater-like room. There must have been a maximum of 50 elves in the room, and Filvandrel stood on a dais, giving a speech about how they must turn to survival, not fear. 

He couldn’t hear the words. All he could think about is that Filvandrel ought to be giving this speech in fine clothes on a podium overlooking his kingdom, not in worn armor in front of a handful of survivors. He should be celebrating the next generation of elven history, not hoping for scraps of survival. It was awful to watch. 

Yet, as Julian looked closer to the faces of the elves watching, he saw the smallest hint of hope on their faces and he could tell that Filavndrel’s words were having an impact on them. Yes, they were broken and defeated but they had a King. There was still hope. 

In the end, everyone clapped and cheered and Filavandrel was not given a crown. Julian imagined that they had all been destroyed when the palace collapsed, but he was cheered on by chants of “LONG LIVE THE KING!”

He stayed up on the dais as various elves walked up to him to talk. He listened to each one of them individually and while Julian could not hear what he said, he saw that Filavandrel took time with his answers and talked to each person as an equal. He waited patiently until everyone was gone and then walked over to Filavandrel. 

“That was amazing,” he said.

“Thank you,” Filavandrel said. Then he started sobbing. 

Julian had never seen him cry, not in the darkest moments of the war, not when they had watched as the elven world was torn apart, not even when Julian thought himself blinded. This was the final straw. It was watching as his entire world was torn apart and ripped into pieces, as he crowned the king before a crowd of refugees and as he saw the end of his people. Filavandrel cried. 

His harsh sobs echoed in the empty room and Julian merely held him close, mourning alongside him. It was the kind of tears that echoed intense grief and pain that turned almost physical. This kind of pain left the mind and transferred to the body, leaving Filvandrel a gasping, heaving mess. Julian could do nothing but simply be there for him. 

* * *

The process of getting the refugees together and living in relative safety was a difficult one. They continually found more survivors in the caves and the few elves who were able to still control chaos used up much of their energy creating false environments to grow food. There was an underground river so they didn’t have to worry about water but the process of moving to a subterranean society was a long and difficult one. Filavandrel had calculated that if they kept up with strict rationing and planting the right crops at the right moments they could have enough supplies for 50 years of living underground. 

After that, well, Julian hoped the world would be safe enough for the Elves to theoretically return to the world above. At the very least to find food. Many of the elves living below were coming out of their fearful phase and were moving into resentment. Filavandrel was trying his best to keep people busy, give them a sense of purpose. He created a cultural restoration committee and made sure that as much of their history as possible was being preserved. There were caches of clothes, books, paper, general supplies in the tunnels to help move these processes forward. 

Julian was right there alongside Filvandrel. He helped organize committees, find caches, keep spirits up. Julian would help train young warriors and overtime grew into almost a jack-of-all-trades for the refugees. Unfortunately, this had the effect of causing a rift between him and Filvandrel. There wasn’t anything necessarily bad. It was a lack of something. 

They grew more distant from each other, their relationship changing from passionate moments between one another too-long nights of companionship discussing future directions for the Elven people. The attraction that had drawn them together began to fade. He wondered some nights if their passion for each other had been born of fear and now that they were settling if that passion was leaving forever. 

Before he knew it, years had passed and Julian had begun to feel antsy. He was no longer needed as he once was with the elves and had begun to feel like an outsider. These were not his people and he could be doing more in the world by finding out the state of affairs. He also wondered after Mael and wanted to see how many of the Elves had transitioned to living as humans. When he told as much to Filavandrel there was a quiet sort of resignation in his eyes as Julian announced he was leaving. 

Julian promised to come back but Filavandrel didn’t seem to hear him. He was more focused on how to keep his people together. 

It was perhaps a day's ride away to Vengerberg and Julian dressed in commoner’s travel clothes and kept his head down as to not draw attention. There was a quiet sort of peace that had settled over the land. Now that there was no longer a war, he saw small farms along the road and plenty of lad surrounding Dol Blathanna. It was the beginnings of a human settlement, taking over the land that was once the elve’s home. He even saw the beginning of buildings on the cliffs. He shook his head and continued on his way. Built on the bones of elves. Strongest foundations there were. 

He reached Venegrberg without too much trouble and found himself in a tavern that night, weaving a story of a sick uncle in Hagge he was traveling too. It was a small town and he didn’t want to start asking around for someone named Mael and draw suspicion to himself so instead, he wandered the marketplace, looking for familiar faces. 

The market was small but filled with fresh vegetables and small craftsman wares. Then, at the edge of the market, he saw it. It was Vivian, the elf he had saved form Dol Blathanna, looking as human as good be, selling honey. He wandered over to her cart and smiled. 

“How much for a jar?” He asked, a genuine smile in his tone.

“Julian!” she cried. She appeared much happier than when he had seen her last and seemed genuinely settled here. However, there was a small pinching at the corners of her eyes that belayed some news she had for him. 

“I know, Vivian, it’s been a long time, I’d love to see the family.”

“Oh yes, you must stop by for dinner, I’m sure Renata would love to see you again. If you’d like to wait, the day is soon ending. I’ll be packing up my wares soon enough.”

He assumed Renate must be her wife. Vivian filled the silence with chatter about their three children who were growing up to be quite rambunctious tricksters and how Venegrberg was oh so different from Povir but they were settling in nicely. She helped her carry a few remaining baskets filled with jars of honey to a cottage on the edge of town. In the back, he could see a fair number of beehives. She must have seen his look. 

“Don’t worry, they only sting people who deserve it.” She laughed as she let him inside. 

Vivian was immediately assaulted by two small children Julian recognized from that night. Renata picked out her head and smiled when she saw Julian, “I’m glad you are here,” she said.

“Sit down,” Vivian said, her face losing just a touch of its previous warmth, “I think there's something you need to hear.”

“What is it?” Julian asked, “I came here looking after your family and Mael, I’m beyond glad at how well you’ve settled here.”

“It's been great for us,” she said, “But Julian I need to tell you about Mael.”

His blood grew cold. Her tone of voice offered no support and he had already lost so much. He steeled himself for the news. 

“When he came here, a month or so after us, well, there was nothing suspicious. But then he fell in love with a human woman who was already engaged. She agreed to run away with him and it angered her fiance. He attacked Mael and in the ensuing fight, tore off his necklace which revealed him as a half-elf.”

She looked around, making sure there weren’t any children around to hear, “they burned him in the town square.”

Julian buried his head in his hands. It was just like Mael, that goddamn hopeless romantic to try and save a woman from a loveless marriage. 

“Is there any grave? Anyway to remember him?” Julian asked. 

“We planted a rosebush in his honor,” Vivian responded, “And well, there’s a girl. His daughter. The woman was pregnant and she tried to pass it off as her husband’s but when the girl was born...”

Vivian paused to collect herself, “They say she’s cursed as a result of her blood. We’ve tried to go near the babe but there’s no way we can do that without being discovered or put under suspicion ourselves.”

“Before I leave town, I will try and see the child,” Julian said, making a promise he knew he had to keep in his very bones. 

That night, he stole away to the house where Vivian told him the girl lived. He opened the window and saw a baby, no older than a few months, in a small bassinet next to the window. He crept into the empty room. The child had been put out in the main room while the parents slept far away in the bedroom. 

He leaned over and saw a small tuft of black hair on her head. He immediately saw what was meant by cursed. She was twisted in an unnatural way, her tiny jaw jutting out far to the side and her back pulled one way and then another. It looked painful. Julian reached his hand out to the baby and picked her up. She stirred just a little but Julian held out his hand and sent a minor axii towards her, stopping her from crying. 

She opened her eyes without a sound and Julian felt his eyes well up. She had Mael’s eyes. Her luminescent purple eyes both betrayed her heritage and reminded him terribly of his old friend. He looked around the room. The child seemed well cared for and while this family clearly wasn’t wealthy, they supported the child well enough. She had her own bassinet and was wrapped up tight in warm blankets. 

He didn’t know her name but he held the last bit of his friend close, whispering promises to her he was never able to keep for her father. Julian owed Mael a life debt for saving him after the explosion. He had felt the strings of destiny tie them together but now that he was dead, that destiny, that promise of protection and debt had been transferred to his daughter. 

Julian knew then and there, felt the magic settling within him, that no matter what happened to this quarter-elf child, he would be duty-bound to protect her always. He would feel compelled to keep her safe. For a moment, he tried to feel the potential for chaos inside of her but immediately recoiled. She was powerful, there was no doubt of that but her chaos was twisted in the same way as her little body. There was something wrong. Julian wanted to try and figure out more but the control of his Axii had slipped and the baby cried out. He quickly set her down and escaped out the window as he heard movement in the other room. 

As he left, he tried to send magic towards her, lessening the pain of her spine and jaw. He hoped it had some form of lasting effect on her. However, when he wasn’t using signs his magic was always a little unpredictable. 

As he walked back to Vivian’s house he couldn’t help but think about how the child’s chaos had felt. It had felt polluted, wrong. Something in magic was broken. He relayed the news of the child to Vivian and she promised to try and look out for the child as much as she could without raising suspicion. He went on his way quietly and late at night. He had enough of Vengerberg. Before he left he stopped by the rosebush to say goodbye to his friend. 

“You would love her,” he said to the flowering plant, “I only held her for a moment but I know you would have loved her. She had your eyes. If I can’t hunt you down in the afterlife then I am damn well going to try and protect your descendants if they need it.”

He turned away and headed back up towards Dol Blathanna. When he arrived at the entrance he found Filavandrel waiting outside it. Julian had the strangest feeling he would not be going inside. 

“I didn’t think you were returning,” Filvandrel said.

“I said I would,” Julian replied.

“Why? What is there for you here?”

“You.”

“Are you here for me though? Or are you here out of a sense of duty that you can no longer see the outlines of?”

Julian felt the words pierce his heart. It was true. For months now he had felt lost in Dol Blathanna, the passion that fueled their relationship was gone and the elves no longer needing his help. He felt like an outsider. 

Filavandrel continued, “You help save my people from complete destruction but Julian,” here he walked up to him and laid his hand on Julian’s cheek, “I can tell that you are searching for more, for the next call to justice. In fact, I know that you likely already have one in mind don’t you?”

Julian took a breath, “Magic is being corrupted as we already know. I want to find out why. There was this child-”

Filavandrel cut him off with a bitter smile, “See? I already knew. I don’t need to know anymore. You no longer have to stay here, you have helped us get back on our feet. Now we must survive.”

“I don’t need to just leave, I wasn’t staying out of some misplaced sense of duty, these years have meaning, they’ve given me purpose, you aren’t just some story I promise.”

Julian, wanted, no, needed to show to Filavandrel that he didn’t see him as something unimportant, he was important to him. 

“Julian, I think we both know that this,” he gestures between them, “hasn’t been working for a long time now. You helped me save my world, now go out there and save some more.”

He leaned in and kissed Julian. Just once. It was goodbye. 

“Thank you,” Julian said. 

As he turned away he heard Filavandrel call after him, “I do expect to hear from you every once in a while! Don’t disappear on me!”

Julian laughed and turned around, “Don’t worry, I know where to find you!”

With that Julian turned away from the entrance to the remaining elves of Dol Blathanna. He had a new quest, a new search. Magic was changing and he needed to know why.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DONT KNOW HOW THIS ENDED UP AT 10K OKAY. Also I'm like...legit not far at all into the main meet of this story. Goddamn. I just got very sucked into Filavandrel/Jaskier content and wrote way too many scenes of them together. 
> 
> At this point, I have so many different aliases and versions of Jaskier in this fic alone it's too much. This guy can't keep the same look for long. 
> 
> So far I have:
> 
> Kid Julian: dark blue eyes and fluffy short brown hair
> 
> Baby Witcher Julian: golden eyes and chin-length brown hair
> 
> Ban Ard Julian: light blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair 
> 
> Kaer Morhen Julian: golden eyes, very short (like almost a buzz-cut) brown hair and a nasty scar on his neck
> 
> Bard-Assassin Julian: think joey Batey from the 1st amazing devil album so light blue eyes, beard, and long brown hair 
> 
> FINALLY, we have Nightingale Prince Julian: Hair goes to maybe his chin but is kinda in disarray most of the time so it looks shorter. It is FLUFFY cause he's wearing a mask a lot so it gets messed up. He has golden eyes and a small scar through his left eye and the nasty one on his neck. (if his left eye looks a little cloudy that's no one's business but his)
> 
> Pretty sure that's his final form and he's not gonna be changing his looking much anymore besides perhaps hiding his eye color again. 
> 
> Language Note: I think it's very important to note that once Dol Blathanna is destroyed a lot of Filavandrel's conversations transfers form elder to common. That's kind of a notice on how he's trying to survive and most alongside humanity instead of going against them now.
> 
> I have some drawing I played around with for the chapter too


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing people is in fact therapeutic. Also, asking for a friend, how do you get rid of a child following you around?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: almost-sexual assault, infanticide, blood and gore

Aretuza was built on bones. Yennefer had of course understood this when Istredd had shown her the skulls and marking in the catacombs under the Tower of the Gull, but somehow, somehow, when she was alone it felt darker. She had been wary to venture back here after portaling away. It was the place where her magic had awoken and the place where her ancestors were unjustly laid to rest. 

She had come back down here after another long week of grueling lessons and subtle insults from her sisters in magic. Even though she had finally gained a grasp on her magic, the others still sneered down at Yennefer and believed she would likely end up serving in a lower court or somewhere far out of the way. They called her pig, twisted, wrong, and she needed an escape. Unable to leave the academy she had come back down to her and Istredd’s meeting place here in the catacombs but he had not been present. 

For the first time, she was alone here, in a tunnel surrounded by bones. She could see them built into the walls, literally supporting the Tower above. Then in the edge of her senses, she felt something calling to her. Yennefer had been down here many times but always with Istredd, never before had she felt this sense of calling. Wary and cautious, she followed the feeling to a pile of bones where dust had gathered. Yennefer felt the urge to pull the bones away but hesitated. 

Magic always had a price. Whatever was calling to her could be a malevolent presence or an entity trying to trick her and capture her power. She had heard of such artifacts before. Still, it felt powerful and she needed that kind of power to get ahead at Aretuza. Perhaps if it was an entity it would be willing to make a deal. 

Yennfer, crouched down and began to push the bones aside. What she found was a sight for her eyes. It was a Witcher’s grimoire. There was a medallion enlaid onto the front cover, and when she tried to remove it, it would not budge. 

It looked to be a Griffin medallion. If this book was the real deal then she had found a rare gift indeed. There were rumors that the Griffin Witchers had been extremely magically inclined but had been destroyed decades ago. Their magic was lost. There were perhaps a few surviving members across the continent. She had never heard of a missing grimoire but supposed the council either wouldn’t want to advertise they had lost it or believed it destroyed. 

Yennefer smiled. This meant no one would be looking for it. She could have access to an entirely new type of magic and no one would be able to find the source of her abilities. When she went to open the book she felt the touch of magic to it and strangely enough it felt familiar, comforting. 

There was some sort of repelling charm on the book but for some reason it allowed her through. She assumed age must have worn down its abilities but wondered how Istredd had never noticed it. Yennefer sighed. She would have to keep this grimoire a secret even from him. If anyone knew she had it she would lose her advantage. 

She skimmed through the book, almost all of the magic seemed to be battle magic or healing spells. It would make sense for a Witcher. The battle magic seemed destructive and powerful. The magic looked complex and difficult to learn but it would be holy unique to her. Not even other Witchers knew most of this magic. Yennefer doubted if even the other Griffin Witchers had seen this grimoire. 

It made her wonder how it had found its way into the catacombs of Aretuza. It must have been placed here, hidden, but how could it have come to be? No one was allowed into Aretuza’s walls that wasn’t invited and furthermore the wards would have altered someone to an intrusion. 

Yennefer shook her head, that was to be a question for another time. Now, in the present, she should focus on her good luck and fortune. She tucked the book hidden into her dress and vowed to get an expanding bag to hide it in. This would be just another step on the path to her ascension. 

* * *

Julian downed another flagon of Ale. It was his...well it was more than his fourth and less than his tenth. Probably. It was becoming harder and harder to remember exactly how much he had drunk. Every time his cup became even close to empty, a dwarf would come by and fill it up again. His cups overflowed at the Mahakam Ale Festival. It was held only once every 25 years but oh, was it a party to remember. Every person and their grandmother was completely sloshed and if half of them remembered the night Julian would be impressed. 

The hall where the festivities were held was large and could hold hundreds at a time. There were large Cedar beams that curved upwards to meet in the center, forming a pointed semi-circle. The entire hall seemed golden with the glow of so many torches and fires. Massive stacks of barrels of Ale covered the entire back wall. It was truly a sight to see. 

In the corner, a truly lackluster bard was playing bawdy drinking songs, slurring every other word, and generally relying on the half-listening crowd to remind him of his place in the music. Julian rolled his eyes at the sight. 

Many came here in the search for massive quantities of ale. He came here in the hunt for answers. He had spent the last 18 years searching for the reasoning behind the mage’s massacre but most trails had ended cold. He had traveled across the continent three times over, searching in ancient ruins of the Dauk and Wozgor peoples, the first human settlers of the continents, for answers. 

Most recently, he had found himself in a Wozgor Necropolis in the Dragon Mountains. The tombs had all been raided previously and there was not much in the way of artifacts but the images on the walls had remained. And what a story they told. It was not common knowledge what had happened to the Wozgor people. They were a nomadic people who were pushed out when the Nordlings began to found their empire hundreds of years ago. It was believed that they had moved East to Zerrikania. Their written language was practically lost to time and Julian had to pay a pretty penny to find even a basic book with rough translations of some of their words and phrases. Many of them were taken from context or rough guesses so even then there was simply no direct translation. 

Luckily, they had been proficient artists as well and Julian was able to decipher the tale on their tombs well enough. It was a story of a war against the Werebubbs. Apparently, these were tombs of soldiers that had been bravely killed in the honor of “Lilit”. She seemed to be their heavenly figure. He couldn’t find any more information but the Wozgor had clearly been proficient magic users as their burial grounds were built in immense stone structures mostly underground that could not have been created without the aid of chaos.   
The largest hint Julian had as to the importance of these tombs was the clear evidence of Mages tampering with the burial grounds. The tombs could not be accessed without magic and going by the lack of dust, there had been people here recently. As well, Julian had found a few crumbled pages with messy calculations written on them. 

They seemed to be rough drafts, but he was able to match up some of the symbols on the page with others written on the wall and the word Lilit was written multiple times on the page. It seemed to be calculating something about the sun. However, with his poor grasp of the Wozgor language and the lack of contextual information about the Wozgor and Werebubb war, there wasn’t much he could do. 

Which had led Julian to Mahakam. The only time they allowed humans into their kingdom was during the Ale Festival so dressed in his Nightingale Armor, he had been allowed in through the gates. He was hoping to find a werebubb and ask for details about who exactly Lilit was. He knew that while the werebubb’s didn’t have the best written historical records their oral history was unmatched and if he could find one willing to talk he might find answers. Julian was relatively sure that no mage would ever lower themselves to talk to a non-human so he would be likely to get a better answer than they ever would. 

This had led to Julian having perhaps..seven large ales now? Again, he was not completely sure of the numbers. It was one after the other in quick succession. Although the lower face mask had been removed, he kept his hood high up and most of his face was cast in shadow. 

Over the course of the night, he hadn’t spotted any werebubbs. Then he saw a group enter into the massive hall, cheering and hollering. They were carrying an enormous Elk over their shoulders and threw it down onto the table. The hall cheered and a few dwarves came to take it away. Immediately the large group was served alarming amounts of ale and in the spirit of the festival began downing it at once. Julian stood up and began to make his way over to them. 

“A fine kill!” he yelled out as he approached the group. 

The group looked up at his approach and started, clearing recognizing him. 

“Look boys!” one of the werebubbs shouted out, his face broadening into a large smile. “The Nightingale Prince had deigned to join our table. Haven’t heard from you since the Great Cleansing.”

Julian looked at the fur patterns on the werebubb’s face and saw quite a number of grey hairs and determined he had probably been involved in some of the fighting. 

“Oh if you’ve heard of me then I’m sure you know how much work I can do in the shadows,” he said, a hint of danger seeping into his tone. 

“I like this man!” One shouted.

“Killed any mages lately?” Another asked.

Julian took this as an invitation to sit down and leaned over the table. 

“Not as of such but if any were to arrive here tonight it’s unclear exactly how safe they’d be.”

“I love your spirit,” the older Werebubb with the gray fur said and brought out his arm, “The name is Dezel, leader of this pack.”

Julian grasped Dezel’s arm, and nodded, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Is it a pleasure?” Dezel asked, “Or is it business that has brought the ruthless Nightingale Prince to our table?”

“I suppose it's a bit of both,” Julian admitted, “In my travels, I have recently come across a name that your history is likely to know about. Humans have no understanding of the name and it is of utmost importance I learn about it.”

Julian brought out the papers he had found on the floor of the Wozgor necropolis but before he could speak again one of the werebubbs let out a sharp gasp.

“Lilit?” They said. 

Dezel scowled at Julian, “You ask us to talk of Lilit, the opponent of all great heroes we hold in our memories?”

Julian started, not expecting this harsh of a reaction, “From the Wozgor tombs, she appeared to be some form of a goddess-”

He was cut off by another scoff from Dezel, “To them, perhaps she was some twisted form of a deity. We do not worship false and far-removed gods. We have our ancestors to guide our people. To us, she represents the ultimate evil. But it is uncouth to talk of her to an outsider such as yourself.”

Julian decided to push a little more, if Dezel rebuffed him another time then he would leave and find another path for answers but this was more information in a few sentences than he had garnered in years. 

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind, any favors perhaps? Having the Nightingale Prince in debt could be most helpful.”

And perhaps it was the ale or the festival surrounding them but Dezel looked considering at his words. 

“There might be some favors we need. You could be the perfect one to help.”

Dezel quickly lapsed into the Werebubb language and spoke with his fellows around the table. Voices were raised and fists were pounded against the table but after a few moments, he turned back around towards Julian. 

“We have an agreement for you.”

“I will listen,” said Julian. 

“First, we would need you to convince Brouver Hogg, the Chief Dwarven Elder,” here, Dezel motioned towards an older dwarf seated near the high table, “to allow our pack to hunt in the Eastern lands of Mahakam near Rivia. We have been barred for the past decade but grow weary of our current hunting grounds.”

“Second,” Dezel looked over at the garbling bard with annoyance, “Get rid of that damn bard. He’s giving us all a headache. But we still want entertainment.”

Julian grimaced. If the agreement was simply about getting rid of the bard then this would likely be no problem, but trying to convince Brouver Hogg of anything? The man had been in power for a century already and was likely to stay for another just for fun. He was an absolute isolationist, having refused even an iota of help during the Elven Wars and had remained locked away in Mahakam. He ruled with an iron fist and Julian had no idea how he would even approach the table. 

However, he had no choice if he wanted to hear about Lilit from Dezel. Dammit. The werebubbs were not known for offering second choices. 

He again clasped his arm around Dezels and nodded, “I accept this agreement.”

Julian then got up from the table and began to walk over to the head table where Brouver Hogg looked down upon the festival-goers. Alright, Julian, he told himself. Confidence is key. They won’t question why you are approaching the table if you approach it with complete confidence. As he headed over he thought of any possible way to convince Brouver Hogg of anything. He mentally ran over the list of things he knew about the Chief Elder. He was fair, just, honorable…Oh, Julian had an idea. An insane idea but it just might work. 

The guards stopped him just as he reached the dais that the table stood on. The table was level with his chest and he could see Brouver Hogg’s stern face looking down at him. 

“Who are you, boy, and what brings you to my table?” the dwarf said. 

Julian did not think at the age of 51 he could quite be classified as a boy any longer but he elected not to correct the man and instead looked him the eye and smirked as he boldly declared, “Chief Elder Brouver Hogg, I challenge you!”

Immediately, the hall silenced. It was a bold statement and the dwarf in question already had his hand on his sword. Julian reached over the table and Brouver Hogg’s hand twitched just a bit but instead of committing any crime or act of violence Julian grabbed a nearby flagon of Ale and raised it above his head. 

“To a drinking contest!”

Brouver Hogg’s hand left his sword and he left out a sharp laugh. 

“Ah, so the Nightingale Prince comes to my table and challenges me to a drinking contest, and what is the purpose of this contest.”

He leans across the table and stares into Julian’s eyes, hidden as they are by his hood. “What is it you so seek?”

Julian tilts his hood to the left and smiles even if the man cannot fully make it out, “If I win, the Dezel’s werebubb tribe shall have free reign to hunt in the lands near Rivia.”

“And if you lose?”

“Well, I am sure that you, Chief Elder, will be able to think of a fitting punishment.”

“Leaving the punishment in my hands? You are either very brave or particularly stupid but I accept your challenge. MEN!”

With Brouver Hogg’s final shout, two dwarves came out each carrying a barrel of Ale. Julian prayed to every ancient and modern god he had ever heard the faintest hint of. True, Brouver Hogg had been heavily drinking all night and Julian did have a Witcher’s constitution, but there was only so much he would be able to do in the face of an entire barrel of Ale. 

He prayed he would survive.

A drink stop was hammered into the barrel and Julian looked around for a glass. Brouver Hogg must have seen his searching glance because he smirked at him and yelled, “WE BEGIN!” Then he lifted up the massive barrel and began drinking straight from the stop. 

Julian just about shit his pants. Still, he gathered his strength and lifted the barrel up himself, not to be outdone and began drinking. Oh god, the ale burned and he was genuinely worried that (if) he was able to drink it he might die of alcohol poisoning before he was able to get to his Wive’s Tears potion. This was not the common ale they served to everyone else. This was Dwarven Ale and he was royally fucked. 

About a quarter of the way through the barrel, the room began to spin. It had taken him around five minutes to finish that much, and Julian was drinking the water like a fish. If he was already feeling the effects, this must be a powerful goddamn drink. By the time he was halfway through the room was not only spinning but the floor was undulating, trying to kick him off of it. When he was near the bottom of the barrel, having to take heaving gasps every ten seconds just to breathe enough air and not vomit, his body felt simultaneously as light as a feather and heavy enough to sink right into the ground. Every limb was tingling and as he was literally spinning in circles as he finished the barrel. 

Julian cheered in triumph as he finished the barrel, throwing it off into the crowd when he was done. He may have hit someone. Someones. There may have been screaming. He couldn’t tell. 

“FIIIIIIIIINIISHEDDDDD,” He yelled out into the room. 

He looked around at all the spinning figures and settled on a gray man who looked a little like Brouver Hogg if Julian squinted just the right way. 

“I win and now you must forfeit!” He yelled out, well, at least, that is what he meant to yell out. It came out a little more like, “I Win….and...and..forfeeet is nah.”

Then he noticed the empty barrel standing next to Brouver Hogg.

“Didddd I eat that too?” He asked.

The gray blob Brouver Hogg was full-on cackling now, his hands on his knees and Julian did not understand what was so funny. 

“Oh, Nightingale not only have I never seen a man finish an entire barrel of Ale without kneeling over halfway through, but I also haven’t had someone challenge me to a drinking contest in a century. I’m afraid you’ve lost.”

Julian was shocked, how could he have lost? The evidence was on the dais. Both of his barrels. Wait, no, just one of his barrels. The other had been stolen by the crowd. In the distance, someone was crying about a broken leg. 

“However,” Brouver Hogg, “you did say I would get to choose the punishment. My decree is this,” all the collected audience members watched in apt fascination. “You will have to tell me your name oh secret Nightingale and then you will have to suffer the crowing pridefulness of Dezel’s pack as they talk about their new hunting grounds.”

Julian simply nodded, not fully understanding what Brouver Hogg was saying but then he was lifted up by a pack of excited Werebubbs. There was cheering and he could not feel the ground anymore, wait was he on the ground? He wondered why Dezel’s pack was excited, he hadn’t even helped up his end of the bargain. 

“WAIT!” He yelled and rolled out of their arms. Thank god for a Witcher’s toxic-filtering metabolism because the world was simply spinning now instead of jumping and while he couldn’t feel his legs all that well he felt if he really concentrated he could likely articulate words. 

“Our...bargain...is not complete,” he slowly got out, everyone looked at him in confusion but the bard across the room began to try and play a jaunty tune fitting the current mood. He didn’t even notice Julian coming over until the Witcher had barreled into his, stealing his lute. 

“Fuck, this is not even tuned,” Julian muttered, trying to get the lute tuned correctly. 

“I PROMISED ENTERTAINMENT!” He yelled over to Dezel who had his head in his hands. The bard was running out of the hall in fear but Julian paid his no mind. He brought his arm up and began strumming quickly on the strings the perfect song for entertainment. 

_ 'Twas on the first of August _

_ The party, it began. _

_ Noo, ne'er shall I forget, me lads, _

_ The gatherin' o' the clans. _

_ Five-and-twenty virgins _

_ Came down from Aviemore, _

_ And one of them got back sae, _

_ But she was double-bore. _

_ There was dancin' in the meadows, _

_ There was dancin' in the ricks, _

_ Ye could nae hear the bagpipes _

_ For the swishin' o' the pricks. _

_ There was screwin' in the parlor, _

_ An' screwin' on the stones. _

_ Ye could nae hear the music _

_ For the wheezin' and the groans. _

_ There was screwin' on the banister, _

_ Screwin' on the stairs; _

_ Ye couldna' see the carpet _

_ For the mess o' curly hairs. _

_ There was fuckin' i' the stable, _

_ There was fuckin' i' the ricks; _

_ An' ye couldna' hear the rantin' _

_ For the plungin' o' the pricks. _

_ They tried it on the garden path _

_ And once around the park, _

_ And when the candles all burned out _

_ They did it in the dark. _

_ The deacon's wife was standin' there, _

_ Her arse against the wall; _

_ "Put your money on the table, lads, _

_ I'll take ye ane an' all.'' _

_ And when the ball was over, _

_ The opinion was expressed: _

_ The music was exquisite but _

_ The screwin' was the best. _

_ “SING IT WITH ME” _

_ The music was exquisite but _

_ The screwin' was the best. _

_ The music was exquisite but _

_ The screwin' was the best. _

_ AIE AIE, AIE AIE AIE AIE  _

_ AIE AIE, AIE AIE AIE AIE  _

_ AIE AIE, AIE AIE AIE AIE  _

_ AIE AIE, AIE AIE AIE AIE  _

By this point, the entire crowd was cheering and hollering, stomping their feet, and drinking heavily. Julian could barely be heard over the AIEs of the crowd. He was swaying dangerously but managed to get the words out just fine. Then he took a wrong step and plummeted face-first into the cold stone floor. He felt his nose crunch onto the ground and pain sobered him up just a bit. 

He was pulled to his feet by Dezel who had laughter in his eyes. 

“Alright Nightingale, let’s get you off the crowd for a moment, we are plenty entertained, maybe for the next two generations.”

Julian was led out of the hall and into a side chamber where he was placed in a chair. 

“It sounded like you broke your nose there, is it alright if we removed your hood?”

Julian nodded and felt the removal of the hood. Dezel breathed in and said, “And here I thought you were horribly deformed.”

“Get me my pack,” Julian got out.

When he was handed the pack, he began rifling through it, looking for any potions he had left. He didn’t have an extensive supply but he kept as many as he could on hand. Julian sighed with relief as he pulled out the purple potion that was Wive’s Tears. As soon as he drank it he felt the effects of intoxication leave him. 

“Oh dear, what happened out there?” He asked Dezel. 

“A glorious situation,” the werebubb said.

“I didn’t win the drinking contest either,” Julian said.

“Not as such no, but the Chief Elder granted you your wish anyways and all he asks in return is your name.”

Julian nodded, “That seems fair enough. And just to clarify I did somehow manage to perform a ballad completely shit-face in front of the entire hall?”

“That you did, quite frankly that was one of the best ways I could have imagined the bargain being fulfilled.”

“You are welcome,” Julian said wryly.

“Now, if you are up for it, I believe you had some questions about Lilit.”

“I am completely sober now.”

“Well, ask away.”

Julian brought out the papers again but this time Dezel began to look carefully over them. As he did so, Julian sank into the comfortable chair that was opposite of Dezel’s. There was a fire crackling away merrily in a hearth and Julian was feeling more relaxed than he had in a while. It had been years since he had performed music for anyone. He thought Alucard would have been very proud of his performance. 

Dezel spoke up, “I don’t understand all this writing but it seems to be calculating eclipses with these equations.”

“Why would a mage be calculating eclipse and what does Lilit have to do with it?”

“I can’t confirm anything but we have an ancient legend about Lilit that might fit what is written here.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the Wozgor considered themselves Lilit’s chosen you see. They believed that she would return to earth in human form and cleanse the continent. Her chosen would be the only ones to survive the bloodbath. She is prophesied to return during an eclipse. There is an ancient werebubb tradition of chasing away eclipses with noise and large gatherings. It is especially worrying that there is a renewed interest in Lilit’s return now.”

“Why?”

“In three years, there is going to be an eclipse that will be powerful enough to cover the entire continent and last for hours on end. We are calling it the Black Sun. We have been so far treating it as any other eclipse but if these papers are pointing towards some calculation then I fear Lilit’s path is soon to rise.”

Julian leaned forward, “And what exactly is marked by Lilit’s return.

“Ah see, this is what few humans would ever know. It is not Lilit’s return but her path. Lilit is feared because of her ability to completely negate the gifts of magic. This is why the wozgor worshipped her. She spelled the end of humanity and magic. However, we know she was no goddess but a human blessed by an eclipse. She used her power to take over the continent and rule as a lord for ages. It seems with these calculations that once again Lilit’s power will once more walk the earth. Any girl born under this sun will be able to destroy magic and ignore its effects altogether. Spells and Enchantments alike will not be able to touch them.”

“How do you know these girls would bring about destruction.”

“That’s the danger. We don’t believe in fate but rather choices. These girls will have immense power. Imagine if someone pushes them towards the path of evil.”

Julian felt sick. He could only imagine what the mages would do with girls who were unable to feel the effects of magic. They would either order them completely destroyed or conduct experiments to try and understand why they were immune. Not a single one would be able to live a safe life. Ever. 

He looked into Dezel’s eyes, desperately trying to think of a plan, “Is there any way to find these girls ahead of time, any besides their birth to identify them?”

“There is a saying, ‘ _ sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood’.  _ Knowing how soon this eclipse will be and the strength of it, the golden crowns could refer to--”

“Royalty,” Julian finished, horrified. 

This was worse than he could have imagined. Mages would soon be hunting down these girls and he would have to find a way to help them. Based on Dezel’s wariness he was unlikely to find help from them, the dwarves were isolationists and the elves in hiding. The humans would hunt them down. Perhaps he could….no, he couldn’t. He would only try and find other Witchers as a last resort. 

Julian felt shaky as he stood up and pulled his hood back on, “Dezel, I cannot thank you enough for your knowledge. I know I fulfilled our agreement but I am in your debt. If you will excuse me, I have to finish my bargain with the Chief Elder.”

“Good luck with whatever your quest may be Nightingale.”

He said goodbye to Dezel and left the small antechamber, going back into the hall where the crowds had thinned out considerably as the night wore on. 

“I am here to speak to the Chief Elder,” he told the guards at the table. Julian was about to walk up onto the dais but Brouver Hogg himself walked over. 

“Follow me,” the dwarf said, “I had an antechamber here where you can share your secret away from prying eyes and ears.”

The room was golden and opulent, clearly, a space to impress dignitaries but the Chief Elder held himself lightly. 

“From my understanding, you want my name.”

“I think it’s a fair trade for the light sentence.”

“It is.”

“Well then, have at it.”

Julian took a deep breath, centering himself before removing his hood once more. Brouver Hogg found himself looking into the face of a man who looked to be in his late twenties with long bangs framing his face and his brown hair pulled into a short ponytail at the top of his head. He had a scar on his neck barely peeking out from his high collar and a smaller one running across his left eye. His golden eyes marked him as a Witcher.

“My name is Julian of Kaer Seren.”

Brouver Hogg took this news without a hint of surprise showing on his face, but Julian could smell the scent in the air.

“Witcher, you certainly chose a different profession than most of your brethren.”

“There aren’t many of my brethren left to choose a path, Chief Elder.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do I have to ask that you keep this discreet?”

“Most assume you are some type of Witcher you know, the tales of golden eyes are very clear.”

“Ah but they have no true conformation and the others do not know who I am.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Julian thought back to the many people he’s met and left behind these past few decades, about Filavandrel, finding his place living in the tunnel of Dol Blathanna. They occasionally relayed messages but they were few and far between, their lives had gone in different directions. He of Vivian and her family, of Trefor Fairchilde and the dead bodies of the mages at Ban Ard. The children burning at Kaer Morhen. He supposed there weren’t many people who actually knew him. He supposed it was lonely. But it was his burden. 

“It is,” he finally responded and flipped the black hood back up, concealing his face once again. 

“Thank you for entrusting this to me,” Brouver Hogg said, “You are welcome back to any of the festivals.”

“I assure you, I find my way here again eventually, good tidings Chief Elder.”

“And to you, Julian of Kaer Seren.”

* * *

Julian cursed as he ducked behind a building. The sky was grey and the air was cold. There were soldiers patrolling just about every street of Novigrad currently. He was lucky it was an overcast day as it made it easier for his black armor to blend into the shadows. Once again, he had returned to the familiar weapons of a silver and steel longsword which were strapped to his back. He was here on the words of a werebubb who had relayed to him that the mages were holding a number of girls hostage here. 

Over the past three years, he had kept his ears to the ground and worked hard to try and create information pathways to the courts around the continents. He had taken a fair number of contracts with assassin’s guilds in order to gain footholds and in return he was given a list of pregnancies throughout the various noble courts. The mages had elected to keep the truth of the eclipse a secret so none of the noblewomen knew that their children would be targeted. 

Julian had tried to warn a noble of Lyria but she had refused to heed the warning. The continent was far too vast and his time was too few. The eclipse came and went and that’s when the mages began making their way through the royal courts. Julian will admit that the mages were clever in their execution. They waited until all the birth announcements had been made so there was no faking the date of birth of the children and then began spreading information about the ‘Curse of the Black Sun’. Girls of royal blood destined to bring about the apocalypse. Many families brought their daughters to mages in order to have them ‘tested’. 

For most of these babies, they had been taken away from their families and whisked off to some unknown location. Julian had been following the trail of the children that were taken in the hopes of freeing them. He knew a number of half-elves that would happily take in the children, give them new identities. 

When he heard that the children, babies, only 15 months old were to be executed in Novigrad he couldn’t believe it. He raced to the coastal city as fast as he could but there were already soldiers around the city and careful guarding. 

Julian made his way onto the rooftops, people rarely remembered to look up and tried to make his way to the town square. 

He saw the crowds of people increase and finally he saw the stage. There were fifteen mages, each one holding a child. They were dressed in those midnight blue robes with gold trimming on the ends. The hoods covered their faces and the babies were wrapped in red cloth. Then, in front of them was Stregobor. Julian felt his lip curl, of course, that man was behind this. That shit-stain of a human being. Gods. 

“--we thank the mothers that so graciously offered their cursed children to us so that we might save the many in the harm of the few. Even at this young age, these girls have shown profound adversity to natural laws of magic and are a perverse reaction to nature. WATCH!” Stregobor cried. 

The mages all held up knives that glinted silver in the low-light and pressed it into the children’s skin. Their flesh burned as the silver knives were pressed against it. Most of the babies began to cry, their wails cracking into the silence that the crowd further broke with their jeers and taunts. 

Julian couldn’t hold in his anger anymore. There were potions in his bag and he rummaged through until he found them. His eyes began to bleed black as his sense sharpened even further and his strength increased. He let out a cry and jumped from the roof, landing into the crowd. He drew his steel sword with a harsh ringing sound and charged at the mages, eyes blazing. Suddenly, he was caught, unable to move. 

Stregobor was holding his hand out and Julian was frozen, “Uh, uh, uh,” the mage said, “We can’t have you interrupting our little carrying out of justice now can we?”

Julian was shaking, trying to throw off Stregobor’s magic. He was strong enough to do it, he knew he could, he just needed more time…

“Now!” Stregobor yelled and the 15 mages slit the throats of the 15 children and Julian tried to scream, to react, but he couldn’t move. The audience cheered. 

With a scream of anguish, Julian broke Stregobor’s hold on him and pushed out his arms in a sign he had learned from the Kaer Seren grimoire. It was an odd combination of heliotrope and aard that created a physical barrier that you could use in battle as a shield or to push your opponents away. 

After breaking Stregobor’s hold on him, he was once again rushing towards the stage. The audience in his path was ruthlessly cut down, how dare they cheer for this? How dare they cheer for the murder of children? 

He leaped onto the stage and Stregbor once again waved his hands and Julian was enveloped in darkness. There was no light or sound. However, he smirked. Sorry Stregobor, you’ve already tried this move. 

When confronted with illusions this strong, Julian could only trust his sense of touch. He felt the wood of the stage beneath his feet and imagined the area around him. A few steps behind him were the edge of the stage but there was plenty of room on either side of him. He closed his eyes and began to fight. His sword connected with multiple opponents and he would quickly but cautiously feel the surface he was stepping onto before putting all his weight on that leg. The illusion was lifted as Stregobor must have believed he was unaffected and he saw that he had taken down two mages in his haze. 

The other mages looked at him and dropped the bodies of the babies. They hit the wooden stages with a sickening thump. Julian pushed down his revulsion in favor of trying to end the ones that committed this terrible crime. Stregobor was nowhere to be seen and Julian imagined that he had fled, the absolute coward. 

The people in the crowd were screaming and running away, many trampling each other in an effort to escape his wrath. He looked away, let the humans kill themselves. He did not have room in his heart to care. Not right now. 

There were 13 mages and only one of him. Julian would have to play this carefully. They gathered around him in a circle and all attacked at once. He cursed under his breath, no chance of them lining up in a row and attacking one-by-one?

“There’s no chance of you just lining up in a row and letting me kill you is there?” He asked. 

The mages said nothing and instead decided to bombard him with spellfire.

He locked both of his wrists together in the sign for Heliotrope and just waited out the first waves of attacks. Then as soon as their assorted spellfire died down, he was moving. 

“Shame,” he said.

Julian began running right at the mages who were briefly too stunned to do anything but then he flipped over their heads, shocking the lot of them. 

Once behind them, Julian began to do a series of flips in rapid succession, desperately hoping he wouldn’t get hit by a stray spell as he concentrated on every moment his hands or feet made contact with the ground. 

After a few twists of his body in the air, Julian landed about 15 feet away from the mages, his breath coming in quick gasps. That was a much more exhausting move that originally planned. 

The mages once more began to run towards him, some of them drawing swords, clearly not wanting to deplete their magic stores so quickly. Julian did not move, staying completely still as the mages drew close. As the first one was just about to reach him, he sliced his arm down and suddenly six of the mages were blasted in the stratosphere. 

Julian smiled. He had placed a combination Igni and Yrden Sign every place he had landed which when activated would cause instant vaporization. The mages looked terrified. Good. This was why you should fear the magic of the Griffin Witchers. 

There were only five mages left. Each of them looked rather terrified. 

“Come on,” Julian said, “you are telling me none of you learned any tricks from your teacher, the great Stregobor?”

“We know plenty of tricks,” one of the mages called out and then disappeared between one blink and the next. 

Julian knew this move. He blocked the mage coming at him with their sword from behind. 

“I know your tricks,” Julian said, “the real question is,” here, he twisted their blade away and slit their throat open, watching them fall in a spray of red, “do you know mine?”

He turned and gestured towards the remaining four who were looking increasingly hesitant. No matter, there would be no mercy in Novigrad today. Julian slowly began to walk towards the mages.

“Now, don’t go getting cold feet on me now, Stregobor left you here to play with me. We don’t want to disappoint.”

One of the remaining mages lost their courage and began to create a portal. Julian, faster than normal with the potions in his bloodstream, was over in the blink of an eye and cut through the mage’s chest, stopping them from their desperate escape. 

The other three were clearly trying to create a spell that would take him down but that kind of powerful spell casting required time that he was not about to give. Before they could finish their chanting in Elder, Julian lunged towards them, spinning his sword in a wide circle through the mages, cutting their words off with their own blood. He stood there, in a small circle of the three last mages, panting heavily. 

There were dead bodies littered about the stage and near it. 15 mages. 15 babies who were 15 months old. Julian wondered if the numbers had any magical significance or if he was simply unlucky. 

By this point, the crowd had completely dissipated. Still, there was a young girl creeping towards one of the bodies. She tried to pick up the body of one of the dead children but Julian stalked over to her. 

“What are you doing,” he asked accusingly.

The girl was shaking, “Collecting the bodies for burial.”

“Where would you send them.”

She broke, crying and dropping the body, “We were told to collect the bodies and bring them to Stregobor so he could examine them.”

Julian turned his head in disgust and then raised his voice, addressing the few lingering villagers.

“You cowards!” He cried out, “You watch as a man murder infants on your doorsteps and you cheer. You call for their killings, naming them as monsters but fail to recognize the monstrosity in your own hearts.” 

“This,” he continued, gesturing at the carnage around him, “will happen in every town, in every hamlet that supports these monstrous mass-killings. I will find you and hunt you down personally. Tell everyone you know. Want every village. This will not stand.”

Ending his speech, Julian turned towards the small girl who was shaking, tears in her eyes as she looked up at him, “Leave,” he growled out. 

She bolted. 

Julian gathered the infant’s corpses, one by one, and laid them together in a pile. He made sure that all fifteen were present before casting Igni, the flames turning white-hot with their power. He would not let there be any remains. The stench of burned flesh assaulted his senses and he had to turn away as tears began to stream down his face. In the end, there was hardly any ash left. Their small bodies had been mostly made out of cartilage, not even having the time to form the strong bones of children and had burned easily. 

He brushed the ashes away with an Aard and tried to ground himself at the moment. All these girls, dead. And for what? A vague prophecy that was practically self-fulfilling. If this was how humanity treated these girls, no wonder they were destined to destroy it. 

Julian looked around at the mages scattering the square. He grabbed each of their bodies, ones by one, and brought them up onto the stage. This would be a statement, a warning to any who dared to take this path again. He was merciless and unforgiving. He protected these girls because no one else was fucking going to. 

Each body was laid at the front of the stage, curled into a fetal position before the rigor mortis set in. Their cooling flesh was meant to take the mockery of a sleeping child. Then, through each of their skulls, Julian stabbed their silver knives used to kill the infants. 

It was dark now. But he knew that come morning everyone would see this message. 

He walked through the town and though he did not see a single soul, Julian did hear whispers. They curled towards him from corners and closed windows. The villagers were talking. 

“The Nightingale Prince,” some said. 

“No, the Nightingale Horror,” said others.

“A monster.”

“A creature of vengeance.”

“A slaughterer.”

“Lock your doors, run away, so the Nightingale won’t come today.”

“He must be some sort of mutant, some beast.”

Julian listened to their whispering with a smile. He would not soon again lay claim to the title of human. He wanted to feed their fear so he began to whistle a jaunty tune as he walked out of town, reveling in the acrid scent of fear that permeated the entire village. 

He traveled from place to place, searching out rumors of girls who repelled magic, of royals with hidden daughters. After his showing in Novigrad, many mages stopped searching for the children all together, ignoring their prophecy. Still, Julian heard tales of Stregobor entering courts under the pretense of ‘examining’ the girls for abnormalities and finding excuses to have them imprisoned. There were towers cropping up all over the continent and Princesses were filling up. Julian tried to stay one step ahead, searching for rumors and following up on the list he was given years earlier but he was not always successful. 

Still, he found a number of girls who he was able to whisk away into hiding, the half-elves who took them in adept at warding their signatures. 

Over the years, he had grown attuned to the distinctive flavor of magic the girls of the Black Sun carried. It felt like a void in magic, a hole in the fabric of the world. It made them easy to find once he was close enough. In Mayena he had run across a street urchin who he sensed with that magic. She must have been but 8 years old and when Julian approached her she seemed terrified. 

“What’s your name young lady,” he asked. 

“Silvenna,” she said in a small voice.

“Pleasure to meet you, my name is Nightingale.”

She kept her head facing towards the ground.

“Do you know what you are?”

She nodded, “I’m cursed.”

Julian sighed, this made things a bit easier, “How long have you been here?”

“Just over a week. I’ve been moving from city to city, hiding in caravans. I’m small and easily hidden.”

“Do you have somewhere to hide?”

“I can keep running.”

“Not forever. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. Where are you from?”

“My parents are nobles in Kagen. I ran away once I learned I was born under the eclipse.”

She was shaking and Julian placed a hand on her shoulder, “It’s amazing that you were not found before now. They must have been shielding you.”

“They didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“That I’m a girl. That’s how I was able to escape. I knew I was a girl but they didn’t and then the magic appeared and I knew I had to run or they would turn me in.”

Julian put his hand on his head. Damnnit. He knew of a half-elf in Narok he could send this child to. There was a caravan leaving for there tonight and if he included a letter with this child then she could be safe. 

“I have a place where you could hide indefinitely. Somewhere where your magical signature would be warded. Would you want that?”

She nodded. 

“Alright, Silvenna, there’s a caravan leaving for Norak tonight and a woman there named Alvita who will be able to take care of you. Follow me.”

He led her through the winding streets to where a traveling acting troupe was camped. He exchanged a few words with the leader, money passed hands, but Silvenna had safe passage to Narok. When she was seated in a wagon, a small piece of bread in her hands, Julian turned towards her and said, “Grow up fierce and strong, be powerful enough that mages would not dare to take you down. Be brave Silvenna.”

With that, he left Mayena, a feeling of hope in his chest. 

As he headed north on foot, traveling during the night and sleeping in trees during the day, he pondered his next move. Going town to town searching for the girl was not as effective as he had hoped. Stregobor was always one move ahead of him. That bastard was slippery, always escaping for her could pin him down. In a fair fight, Julian would easily defeat him but the man was wily and always had a getaway plan. He would have to hunt him down. 

Julian followed every rumor of Stregobor’s whereabouts, but most came up empty. It wasn’t until Creyden that he actually found the man. Julian was creeping along the rooftops of the large city in the night and had seen the man’s arrival. Just days earlier he had heard the news that Queen Aridea had invited the mage to the city. Julian smiled under his mask. Perfect. 

With a largely-announced visit such as this, there would be plenty of pomp and circumstance, eating away at Stregobor’s valuable time and giving Julian a chance to find a way into the palace. 

Even days later, he could not find a way in. Stregobor had set up proximity wards around the palace which let him know who entered and Julian would sneak in as a bard or a courier, but then man began screening every person who walked through the gates. It was fun to see how scared of him the man was but angering at how impossible it was to get close enough to kill the man. 

Julian watched the palace closely for any signs of movement but couldn’t see any. Then, one night he saw a man sneaking out of a side entrance. Finally. 

He leaped down from the rooftop he was perched on and went closer to the man. It was not a guard but what looked to be some type of bounty hunter in light-weight armor. Worst of all, he was dragging a young girl behind him, who was kicking and would be screaming if it wasn’t for the gag in her mouth. She had curly brown hair and looked to be all of twelve years old. 

Another girl. That must be why Stregobor was in Creyden. Julian did not know why exactly she was being sneaked out of the palace. He assumed that her parents were likely trying to force her into hiding. There were a number of royals who had done that with their own girls. 

He decided to follow along at a distance. The girl was kicking the whole way, but Julian did not see her being actively harmed so he remained waiting. Perhaps she didn’t understand where she was going yet or her parents had not informed her of the full situation?

Then, out in the woods, the bounty hunter pushed the girl to the ground and began to force himself on her. Jullian was done watching. He broke out of the underbrush, yelling, “Hey!” at the man. 

The thug turned around for just a moment but that distraction was all the time the girl needed. She had taken a broach off her dress and had stabbed into the man’s ear, killing him instantly. The man slumped over, dead, and the child sat there, shaking. 

Julian crouched down and approached her slowly. He pulled down the hood and the face mask and held his arms out. He tried to appear as non-threatening as possible. 

“Hello there,” he began, “I’m here to help, what do you need right now?”

The girl looked over at him but didn’t say anything. Julian slowly brought out his water pouch and offered it to her, “Take a drink if you need it, it’s just water.”

She grabbed it and began to drink, calming herself down after the near-assault. 

“Thank you,” she said after a few minutes.

“It was no problem,” Julian said gently, “Can I ask for your name?”

“Renfri.”

“Ah yes, the Princess of Creyden.”

With those words, she grew fearful again, standing up and backing away from him, “You won’t take me back!” She called out. 

Julian also stood and again held up his hands, “I wasn’t planning on doing that. There’s a man in the castle right now--”

He was cut off by Renfri, “Stregobor.”

“Yes.”

“He made me do things I have no memory of,” she said. 

“What things?”

“Hurting nurses, killing animals. I swear, I didn’t do any of it.”

“I believe you,” Julian said and he felt his blood boil. Clearly the man had grown tired of how non-evil these girls were and instead was attempting to invent a monster instead of looking in the damn mirror. 

Tears formed in her eyes, “I...can't go home. My step-mother ordered that man to kill me. He would have, but he said he wanted some...fun first.”

Julian felt his heart break, “I’m so sorry. I can find you a place to hide if you wish.”

Her eyes turned on him now, angry and bright, “I am NOT hiding,” she said, “that man and my step-mother have taken my people from me. I am not leaving them to their machinations.”

“What do you plan to do, you are all of twelve years old.”

There was a sense of fight that returned to the girl. She angrily wiped away her tears, leaving tracks of dirt on her face. Her eyes had a new fire in them and conviction laced her words. 

She lifted her chin up, “I am going to learn to fight. I will learn and then return to burn this place to the ground.”

Julian pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t found another girl in around a year and at twelve, they were becoming headstrong that she likely wouldn't take being sent away to hide very well. What on earth could he do?

“From who?”

“From you obviously,” Renfri replied as if the answer was obvious. 

Julian let out an outright laugh, “You do know who I am correct?”

“Of course, you are the Nightingale Prince, the scourge of mages and slaughterer of Novigrad.”

“And those titles inspire confidence in you?”

“They inspire competence. I want to be the best. You shall train me and I will become the best.”

He had a headache forming in the back of his head. He could not take care of a twelve-year-old girl. He didn’t even have a house for god’s sake. Julian spent most of his days killing or spying across the continent. 

“I can’t have a child following in my footsteps. There is a caravan leaving for Temeria in the next few days, catch it and hide,” Julian said as he turned and walked away. 

Unfortunately, the stubborn Renfri followed him, “I’m not leaving,” she said, “you will be my teacher.”

“And why on earth would you see me as a suitable teacher?”

She paused, “You saved me, you’ve saved people, I’ve heard about it.”

“I’ve also killed many more than I’ve saved.”

“Good. I want to kill too.”

“You are twelve!”

“And I killed a man not moments before, I figure it would be safer if I learned to do it well. I’m sure that will not be the last time a man holds me down with malicious intent.”

Julian tried to walk a little faster, perhaps lose her in the forest but she kept pace, trotting alongside him. He finally turned around, “You aren’t going to leave me alone are you?”

She smiled, one of her front teeth was missing, Julian noticed she had freckles splattered across her face, “Nope!”

He sighed, “If I can’t be rid of you there will be a few rules. Number one, listen to what I saw carefully. If I tell you to hide, hide if I tell you to jump, ask how high. I live a dangerous life.”

“And the other rules?”

“I don’t know! I apparently have an apprentice as of thirty seconds ago I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, I’m sure more will appear as we travel!”

Renfri was quiet for a moment, taking in this statement, then she opened her mouth again. 

“I want a sword,” she said, pointing at his back. 

“This sword is far too large for you,” he responded, only imagining what this strong-willed child would do with a sword.

“Then I want a dagger,” she said, pointing to his belt. 

Julian couldn’t think of an excuse this time so he begrudgingly handed her one of his daggers. 

She made quite a sight, holding a large dagger in her small hands, wearing a torn red dress and dirt smudge across her face. Her loose brown curls were tangled and her brown eyes alight. Oh gods, she was going to be fearsome. Renfri tripped over a root and Julian side-eyed her. 

“We are going to have to get you some pants,” he said. 

“Good,” Renfri responded, “I fucking hate dresses.”

Julian gasped in shock, “Where did you learn that from, aren't you a princess?”

“Not anymore,” she said, smirking. Renfri gave Julian a sunny smile before walking ahead a bit into the morning rays that were just beginning to peek over the trees. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! Renfri is finally here, I know, this is basically what I've been waiting for the entire fic for. It only took 40k words to get here. We love that. 
> 
> Also, just so everyone has a fair idea of the timeline here:
> 
> 1159 - Julian is born, he is a Griffin Witcher and grows up in Kaer Seren  
> 1160 - Geralt is born (Geralt is 80 when he meets Jaskier, 1240, Jaskier himself is 81)  
> 1174 - Sacking of Kaer Seren by mages  
> 1174 - Julian sneaks into Ban Ard and hides the Griffin Grimoire there.  
> 1175 - the sacking of Kaer Morhen  
> 1176 - Dyn Marv Caravan, School of the Cat is attacked and sacked  
> 1176 - Julian is called to join Filavandrel’s war council. He sees that the mages have already killed The Witchers and the only reason the Vipers are around is that they cannot find their keep in the Tir Tochair mountains.  
> 1176 - The Elven War begins and Julian becomes the “Nightingale Prince”, he puts on the glamour and sneaks into the mage encampments and assassinates them, he uses the guise of a bard to do so and is renowned for his vocal range which is comparative to a nightingale, many people fear bards, Julian himself is extremely torn because he finds this at odds with his knightly code and nature  
> 1187 - The Great Cleansing, Dol Blathanna falls  
> 1192 - Yennefer is born (She is 48 in 1240), Julian goes to Vengerberg where Mael has been killed by the villagers and Julian learns that he had a daughter  
> 1206 - Yennefer goes to Aretuza and one day finds the grimoire of Kaer Seren, she doesn’t fully understand it but considers it of the utmost value and keeps it with her always  
> 1210 - Jaskier attends the Ale Festival where he challenges Brouver Hoog to a drinking contest and proceeds to out bard a bard and then competes against other fighters. He ends up with an expertly forged sword for his troubles. Ends up hearing about the Black Sun from a Werebubb name Dezel  
> 1213 - Birth of Renfri in Creyden  
> 1214 - Mages round up a group of girls born under the curse and kill 15 babies in Novigrad. All of them are from peasant women as they didn’t know about the curse. Jaskier slaughters almost 15 mages in Novigrad and gains the name the Slaughterer of Novigrad  
> 1216 - Birth of Calanthe to King Dagorad  
> 1224 - Jaskier finds a child named Silvena who mages found and began to torture and helps her escape to Narok where she can be safe  
> 1225 - Stregobor goes to Creyden to meet Queen Aridea and meets Renfri, Jaskier is there, once again, trying to assassinate this bastard. Stregobor convinces Aridea that she is an aberration and she sends a thug after Renfri to kill her. Jaskier accidentally acquires a child.
> 
> Finally, my favorite part of the chapter was the song, I BEG of u to read the lyrics, it's an old folk song I found. An absolute gem.
> 
> And YEAH I did a [sketch of Renfri and Julian](https://bamf-jaskier.tumblr.com/post/622859118221426689/renfri-made-quite-a-sight-holding-a-large-dagger)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Renfri make a new friends. Make that friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: referenced sexual assault

Julian sent another assassin flying with a well-placed swing of his sword. The unfortunate man was pushed against a nearby tree and Julian heard his skull crack as it impacted with the trunk. Ouch. 

He ducked another’s sword and spun around, slicing the man cleanly across his torso. Blood sprayed out and landed onto Julian’s fighting companion. 

“EWWW, why’d you have to go and do that?” The girl beside him asked. 

Her previously clean white shirt now had a large splattering of blood across it.

“Apologies, Princess,” Julian replied, “I was a little too focused on saving your life there.”

“As if,” she said, throwing a dagger and nodding in satisfaction as it landed in another assassin’s eye. “I’m up to 4.”

Julian stepped back and held up his hand, “So impressive, because, well, with the two I just took out, I’m up to 5.”

Renfri suddenly turned around, her eyes fierce, “Left,” she said and Julian obliged, tilting to his left side just in time for another dagger to go flying past his head, embedding itself into another assassin.

“And now,” she said, “we are matched.”

They looked around the clearing in the woods, searching for any more hidden enclaves of assassins or the like, but there was none forthcoming. Either there had only been ten to begin with or the remainder had scattered, electing survival better than sure death. 

“I suppose we are,” Julian responded. 

He threw his arm around the young girl, ignoring her pushes and cries of disgust in favor of giving a wide smile and listing all her accomplishments.

“You did so well! Your dagger-work is excellent and you look so ferocious fighting.”

“This shirt is white you brute!”

“Should have thought of that before you decided to fight in it.”

“I wasn’t planning on being ambushed by _more_ assassins today. That’s twice in the past week alone.”

“Your step-mother is growing more impatient.”

“You have to wonder where she’s getting the money,” Renfri said with a grunt. She was attempting to move one of the bodies onto a pile but the dead weight of a full-grown man was rather heavy for her fourteen-year-old body to handle. 

She glared at Julian, “You could at least help you know.”

He smirked, “Afraid I can’t, _Shrike,_ choose the name, accept the back-breaking labor that comes with leaving a calling card. It’s a good strength-building exercise anyways.”

“What? Hauling around dead bodies?”

“Yes! Great way to build core strength.”

Renfri rolled her eyes but continued with the work while Julian cleaned off his sword and plucked daggers out of dead bodies. Soon, she had a neat pile of bodies. Well, neater perhaps than leaving them spread out through the clearing. 

Then, she took the men’s own swords and began impaling the pile. When she ended it seemed like a macabre art exhibit the likes of which seemed to appeal to people in Verden.

“What do you think?” She asked, taking a step back to admire her work.

“Working befitting the Shrike.”

Renfri rolled her eyes, “You do know they only call me that so they can keep with the bird theme right? The Nightingale and the Shrike.”

“Bards need some aspect of a grisly tale to have poetic significance.”

“You would know.”

“Well, you are definitely getting better,” Julian responded with a laugh. 

“It wouldn’t be so necessary if my step-mother didn’t constantly try and kill me.”

“It is getting a bit tiring isn’t it?”

“We should take care of her, shouldn’t we?” 

“She’s _your_ step-mother, what would you suggest?”

Julian turned around and began turning back to the small path in the woods they have been traveling for a few weeks now. 

When he had taken Renfri in, he was expecting to have to settle down a bit and perhaps put his mission on hold as he raised her, maybe even buy a house to make sure she was comfortable. He had not expected a dozen assassins to drop out of the trees just a week after taking her, sent to kill her on the order of Queen Aridea.

The Queen believed Renfri was attempting to use her ‘unnatural aura’ to overthrow the Kingdom of Creyden and with Stregobor still frothing at the mouth to dissect her, Renfri was a prime target for any bounty hunter. Every few weeks, like clockwork, the two of them would run into one assassination attempt or another. 

It stopped them from ever staying in one place for too long and Renfri had to become very good, very quickly in all manner of weapons. There was one memorable time the Queen had sent the assassination attempt in the form of a poison apple, but lately, she had become very uncreative, simply offering exorbitant for her step-daughter’s head. Well, not head exactly. Queen Aridea wanted Renfri’s liver and heart. For what purposes Julian could only guess at. 

It likely didn't help that Renfri was known to keep company with Nightingale, the most dangerous assassin on this side of the continent who had plenty of his own enemies who once tried to use Renfri as an excuse to get to him. The first and only time someone had tried to kidnap her to use as leverage against him, well, that’s how she earned her name the Shrike at the age of 13. Julian had found Renfri standing over the impaled body of a far-too-confident bounty hunter and supposedly some enterprising bard had used the body for narrative inspiration. 

Incidentally, traveling with Renfri had made Julian a better fighter as well. He was completely unable to use any magic within a 15-foot radius of her and no matter the distance, any spells cast towards her would dissipate before ever reaching her. He could no longer use the signs and magic he had often relied on and instead focused mainly on using his longswords. Julian just thanked his lucky stars her aura didn’t negate the effects of potions. 

He had found out one night cleaning his swords that silver burned her and had as such learned to be very careful with his silver sword around Renfri and had stopped wearing silver rings and jewelry completely. Before, he had used them to determine whether or not someone was human, but now Julian relied on Renfri to let him know. She had a sense for magic or a non-human presence. And they certainly had a sense for her. In addition to her step-mother’s constant attempts on her life, Renfri also had to contend with many different groups vying for her help or believing her to be a chosen one of some prophecy. 

If Julian had to hear ‘The One’ a single more time he might just tear his ears off. 

Needless to say, Renfri was a handful and Julian had dealt with it the only way he knew how, by being an insufferable bastard. 

He taught Renfri to fight so she would likely be able to hold her own even against a Witcher and would fight for her right to choose her own destiny with the ferociousness of a wolf. 

Just a week shy of her fourteenth birthday, a group of Gnomes from Mahakam had cornered them and revealed that Renfri was destined to be a robber-baron, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. They offered their protection and wisdom to her noble quest. 

Julian had firmly, but politely, told them that one-day Renfri might become a robber-baron, ruling the woods of the continent with an iron-fist but currently, she was a young girl and had no such business running about in the woods in charge of a group of gnomes. 

They had protested but after Julian mentioned talking to Chief Elder Brouver Hogg, they had settled down. 

At least mages had entirely decided to avoid them. Julian figured most of them were scared shitless of losing their magic. In a perfect world, Renfri and him would go hunting down mages together but she was not quite ready. One day, Julian thought. 

In the meantime, when the two of them weren’t avoiding attempts on Renfri’s life and prophecies about saving the continent, they looked for other children of the black sun. 

Most of them had been captured or killed by mages and after fourteen years, there were very few left to track down but Julian and Renfri had been on the hunt for a girl they had heard of living in the woods near Cairngorn. That was what had led them to walking along this small path through the woods and what had led to them getting ambushed by yet another group of thugs sent by Queen Aridea. Julian supposed they were rather close to Creyden. Perhaps the Queen was feeling threatened by them being so close to home. 

He supposed the Queen had reason to be right, they were currently spitballing ways to kill her while walking through the woods. 

“Julian, you don’t suppose we could poison her with an apple? Give her a taste of her own medicine?”

“I think, little bird, that she would see that coming from a mile away.”

Renfri sighed and continued trudging through the woods.

“We should stop once we reach a creek. The blood on this shirt isn't quite dried and the cold water could wash some of it out.”

Julian looked over at her shirt. The red stain was right across the stomach and was already turning the brown color of dried blood. It didn’t look particularly salvageable and he said as much. 

“Why do I even bother trying to buy nice things,” Renfri said, “My clothes get destroyed so quickly.”

“Think on the brightside, we could use the shirt for bandages and wrappings.”

“I swear to gods Julian if you knew this would happen and you were just waiting for the shirt to be ruined….”

He put his hand to his chest in mock consternation, “I would never!”

Sun was pushing down through the branches of the aspen trees around them. The black and white trunks were thin and their branches even more so, meaning with every slight gust of wind the leaves made a rustling noise. It made for good background ambiance of their little walk but also made it difficult to tell if there was moving water nearby. Julian did not want to venture too far off the path and they decided to try and keep moving forward, hopefully finding a stream on the way. 

It was lucky then that a few hours later, they had to cross a small wooden bridge that ran across a stream. When Renfri saw it, her eyes lit up. 

“Finally!”

She ran underneath one side of the bridge and took off her shirt, cleaning it in the river and using a rock to try and scrub out the bloodstains to no avail. 

Julian shook his head at her futile quest and crouched down upriver to Renfri, filling up their waterskins. He didn’t bother trying to clean his armor. He hadn’t gotten much blood on it, and at a certain point, well, the blood just crusted off his leather armor or soaked in so thoroughly he had to accept it. Luckily he wore black armor most of the time. At least he didn’t wear armor like other Witcher with silver accents wherever they could fit them. Then he would have to have gained new armor when he took in Renfri. 

“Can you toss me a shirt?” Renfri asked from beside him and he nodded as he tossed her over a dark blue one and in return, she threw him the ruined white shirt. 

“Ah, does this mean I get to keep it?” Julian asked.

“Yes, fine, it’s ruined beyond repair anyway. Last time I buy a white shirt, I’ll tell you that.”

“I hear that blood is a rather fetching look on young ladies these days,” Julian said. 

Renfri came over and pushed him, “Shut up old man.”

The two of them got up and continued back on the path from before and it wasn’t long before Renfri spoke up.

“I haven’t seen any sign of a girl living in the woods, do you think we should continue to linger here?”

Julian looked around, it was true that they hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of another person since dispatching those assassins and it was dangerous to linger so long when Queen Aridea knew where they were. However, Julian knew that one of the black sun girls lived in these woods and he knew that it wouldn’t be long before Stregobor or some other mage came looking and he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. 

“We should camp here for the night and will begin to head out in the morning. If they are good enough to hide from us for that long, they are good enough to hide from any mages that come knocking.”

“Fair enough-Oh Julian! Look at those berries.”

He looked over to where Renfri was pointing. It appeared that there was a mulberry tree around fifty meters off the path. The branches were top-heavy with the ripe purple berries and Julian was overjoyed. 

“Race you there, little bird,” then Julian took off. Without any enhancing potions, and with their supplies weighing him down, he was at an obvious disadvantage. It was no surprise that Renfri got there first. 

Julian stood below the wispy tree, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He set the pack of supplies down at his feet and motioned for Renfri to climb onto his shoulders.

He crouched down so she could get onto his shoulders and then stood up slowly. 

“You should be tall enough to reach the branches like this.”

From his vantage point, Julian couldn’t see all that well, but she managed to snag the main branch at the top with all the berries and pulled it down closer to her. 

“Got it!” she cried out.

“Good job!” He said back and then they began the process of picking as many berries as they could reach. Julian held up a small bowl from their pack as Renfri placed berries into there. 

It didn’t take long before the bowl was full and Renfri signaled that she had picked as many as she could reach. When she got down her hands were covered in purple stains and when she smiled at him her teeth were stained as well. 

“I have to wonder if you ate a berry for every two you picked,” he said fondly, shaking his head as he handed her the bowl.

They went to head back but then Julian heard the sound of a twig snapping. Quickly, he spun around, pushing Renfri behind him with one hand and drawing a sword with another. 

He looked around, his eyes searching for anything unusual in the trees. Then he saw it, crouched behind a large bush off. It was a creature with large, bulbous yellow eyes and a thin, sinewy body with patchy fur. It shuffled forward, almost shyly, looking carefully at Julian’s sword. 

He relaxed once he saw what it was.

“Don’t worry Renfri, it’s just a Hirikka.”

Julian reached and grabbed the bowl out of Renfri’s hands. She had drawn a knife and was poised for a fight, clearly, she did not believe in the harmlessness of this towering creature quite yet. 

“Here you go,” Julian said as he tossed a handful of berries towards the Hirikka.

Renfri let out an offended gasp at this but did drop her guard when the Hirikka simply crouched down to eat the berries, making a cooing noise as he did so. 

“There’s a big trend of them being hunted down for sport right now,” Julian said, “A Cintran chef a decade ago came up with a recipe for parsnip and potato stew with poached egg and grilled Hirikka, now it’s considered the peak of luxury.”

“He’s kind of adorable in a weird way,” Renfri said.

“They are practically endangered now and can only be found in mountain areas like this near Caingorn.”

“Then I suppose we better leave it.”

“That’s probably a good idea, leave while it’s distracted by food. It would begin following us you know.”

Renfri almost looked considering at this but Julian gave a sharp glance that said _no, we are not going to train a Hirikka and kill your step-mother with it_. Although the idea of a Hirikka barging into court is a beautiful image. 

They backed away slowly from the monster and were soon back on the path. The day was long and it was just beginning to get dark. They hadn’t even been walking perhaps twenty minutes when a howl of a wolf cut through the dimming silence. Julian stilled. There weren’t supposed to be wolves in this part of the woods. Renfri also froze, knowing the same as Julian. 

The howls grew closer. Julian began casing glances around, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide. There was nothing. The trees were too thin to support their weight and even the bushes wouldn’t hide them for very long. 

“Behind me,” Julian said and Renfri obliged, the two of them back to back, each of them holding a longsword. They waited, quiet, as the wolves grew closer. Between the two of them, they should be able to take out a pack no problem. The danger lied in exactly why wolves would be here and who was controlling them. 

Then a pack of grey wolves burst through the underbrush, circling the two of them. Yet, they did not attack, merely prowled around in a circle, patiently waiting. 

Two giant black wolves crept into view. They looked different than the others, more aware. A large shadow stood behind them as the shape came into view, it revealed itself to be a young girl, the same age as Renfri. She was tall with short-cropped yellow-blonde hair. She wore mismatched brown leather armor and had no weapons on here. However, Julian figured the wolves growling at her side would be weapon enough. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We are here in peace. We are looking for a girl born under the Black Sun, mages know she’s here and we have come to protect her and bring her somewhere safe.”

As Julian said this he was aware that he was likely talking to the girl they had been searching for, but did not want to make any rash assumptions. Still, the girl looked at him warily before speaking again, “And who’s to say this girl can’t protect herself?”

Julian looked at the wolves again, “I’m sure she can but it may be more difficult against a contingent of mages.”

She tilted her head and then whistled, so high-pitched that Julian was sure no human could have heard it and the wolves all backed off. She walked over and held out her hand.

“My name is Deidre Ademeyn.”

Renfri took it and looked at her, “You can call us The Shrike and Nightingale.”

Julian coughed, “That’s Nightingale and The Shrike.”

Renfri sent a glare at Julian and turned back to Diedre, “So what kingdom were you the heir of before they kicked you out or attempted to kill you for being born on the wrong day?”

“Caingorn,” Deirdre replied, “And they didn’t try and kill me so much as accuse me of being a changeling and stealing away the ‘real’ princess.”

“That’s unique,” Renfri said.

“Lucky me.”

Julian looked down at Deirdre, “What made you accept our help? I’m sure you could have gone on hiding from us.”

She paused and glanced down to the right, “I saw you two, with the Hirikka and I figured you couldn’t be too bad a sort. That and...I need an escort.”

“An escort?” Julian asked, “To where?”

“A man,” she replied succinctly, “A Witcher to be more precise.”

Julian froze. A Witcher. He hadn’t interacted with another Witcher in decades and hadn’t laid claim to the title in about as long. He had never told Renfri about his origins directly but had been able to guess as much based on his vague stories, eye color, and weaponry. 

“Why would you need to find a Witcher?” Julian asked incredulously.

“I’m being hunted by a mage,” Deidre responded.

“Stregobor,” spat out Renfri.

“Actually no, her name is Sabrina Glavissig and she’s working with my younger brother Merwin Ademeyn to try and kill me and have him claim the throne of Caingorn.”

“I repeat, how would a Witcher help? Unless your brother is truly a doppler or some such issue.”

Deidre paused, “My father,” she began, “was saved by a Witcher many years ago and in return claimed the law of surprise. I was the surprise. We are bound by destiny. Simply by thinking of him I could find him anywhere on the continent but I don’t think I can safely make it to him alone.”

Julian pushed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, feeling stressed, “And why exactly had this Witcher not elected to come and find you?”

“He may not know I exist.”

“Of course,” Julian said, “just like a Witcher. Come in and save the day and never come back and check on what exactly happens to the people you save.”

Julian was himself guilty of this. He tried his best, keeping in contact with Vivian, Filavandrel and Brouver Hogg. Every year, he tried to send word of his travels to them or drop in on them and say hello. However, the communication was far apart and varied at best and Julian was probably one of the best Witchers when it came to keeping in contact left on the continent. Most didn’t believe in socializing outside of other Witchers. Lonely bastards. 

He sighed, “We can help you, there were safehouses we could have taken you to but if you already have a place in mind...Well, that makes our process easier. Where is he now?”

Deidre closed her eyes and concentrated then after a few moments opened them once again. 

“Creyden.”

Of fucking course he was in Creyden. Julian glanced at Renfri and knew that this would be the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. 

The journey south to Creyden went a lot smoother than the journey North had been. For one, Queen Aridea had clearly grown tired or lacked the funds to hire more assassins so they were not ambushed in their sleep. As well, with a pack of wolves to hunt for them, they ate like kings. 

Renfri and Deidre also got along like sisters separated at birth. Julian had never thought much about Renfri being isolated as a child. But he supposed there had never been many opportunities for her to talk to kids her own age and make friends. It wasn’t like he was able to stop and let her play around in towns. Most of their travels were spent on the road. 

At least she had these few days to connect with Deidre. The two of them were bonding wonderfully over their shared childhood trauma. Deidre was practically a bloodhound once they got closer to Creyden. She didn’t want to stop to eat, drink, or even piss. Renfri and Julian were tired and said so. They camped just an hour’s walk outside of the city walls and Julian took the opportunity to change out of his rather distinctive armor and put on some light traveling clothes instead. 

The next morning he threw a cloak on top of the whole outfit, trying to make sure his eye couldn’t be seen. The glamour he had was practically useless as it didn’t work in Renfri’s presence and he sure as shit wasn’t leaving her alone. Julian would just have to hope that the hood would be deep enough to hide his eyes from anyone’s passing glances. 

Now there was just one problem.

“You can’t bring your wolves into the city Deidre,” Julian said in exasperation.

“Why not?” she responded.

“Yeah, Julian, why not?” Renfri parroted, clearly wanting the chaos of having a pack of wolves terrorizing her former home. 

He felt another headache coming on. While he appreciated having Deidre around, two teenage girls were a bit much even for him to corral. Julian prayed for whatever Witcher ended up with Deidre in their custody. At least Renfri understood that Wolves were not standard travel companions. 

“Because, Deidre, the great people of Creyden would not react well to having a pack of wolves entering the city and I thought your goal was not to be noticed.”

This seemed to give her food for thought and she said, “What if I only brought a few wolves?”

Well, Julian supposed there were some nobles and some nomadic peoples that had trained animals. He even heard some people in Nazair had trained bears. 

“Alright then, you can bring one wolf into the city.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Okay,” Deidre turned around and called out, “Beann’shie, D’yaebl, come.”

The two wolves that had flanked her during her ambush in the woods came out now and stood on either side of her. They were midnight black with piercing green eyes. They both looked ferocious and Julian politely suggested that Deidre tie a rope around both of their necks to act as a leash. Yes, he assured her, he knows they could break through any rope without a second thought but it helped people feel safe if nothing else. 

Sometimes Julian wondered how young Deidre was when she fled from home and went to live with the wolves. She didn’t seem…particularly socialized to human behavior. It was probably a good thing that a Witcher was already lined up to teach her, because honestly, Julian didn’t know many people who would be okay with wolves following them around. 

Their little party set up for the city of Creyden, Julian hidden underneath a large navy cloak and the two girls walking in front of him with the wolves on either side. Predictably, they got plenty of stares. Hopefully, most people assumed they were simply the worst undercover nobles ever and didn’t think twice about but they could only be so lucky. 

“Well Deidre,” Julian said, “Where to?”

She scrunched up her nose and Julian was reminded of just how young she was, “That way, she said, pointing west. Fuck, Julian thought, that’s the red-light district. 

This was always a possibility, of course, many Witchers would use their down-time to seek out pleasure where they found to find it but he had really hoped that Deidre wouldn’t have to be introduced to her guardian in this manner. Julian also hoped that the Witcher wouldn’t prove a bastard who couldn’t be trusted to take care of a child. If this Witcher didn’t seem to want Deidre or gave any indication he would treat her badly, Julian wouldn’t hesitate to take her on as well. It would not be ideal but he was growing fond of the girl. 

The group of three began to walk into a small alley and there was most certainly a shift in the town’s atmosphere. There were prostitutes standing outside, beckoning in customers and shops with darkened windows selling not-so-legal goods on either side. 

He was suddenly very aware of how he looked, a man in a cloak with two young girls in front of him. One particularly enterprising man-made the grave error of walking up to him, clearly about to bargain for a price and before he could even open his mouth, Julian grabbed his arm and said in a sickly sweet voice, “If you even think about asking how much I will break both your arms and leave you in the street.”

The man ran off and no one else approached them. Deidre stopped outside of a mid-range level brothel. Nothing ramshackle but certainly not one fancy enough to cater to nobles. Just the kind of place a Witcher would favor. Julian was torn, on the one hand, there was the risk of bringing Deirdre to meet the Witcher she was looking for and finding him naked fucking a sex worker. On the other, if he left them out here they could very well end up getting attacked or abducted themselves. And while Renfri and perhaps even Deidre could protect themselves well enough he did want to return to find a pile of dead bodies. 

In the end, he decided to let them inside, hoping this might be kind of place where they had a waiting room or something similar. 

“Deidre, could you please ask your wolves to stay outside?”

She huffed, but agreed, whispering to them under her breathe. They trotted off to the side of building and Julian breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay girls,” he began, “we are going to enter this building but I’m going to cover your eyes so don’t even try looking.”

“I know what a brothel is Julian,” Renfri said, “I’m fourteen.”

“When did you manage to learn about Brothels? I never taught you!”

“My step-mother threatened to send me to one all the time, she said I needed a good fucking to make me humble.”

“She said-“ Julian trailed off, trying to remind himself that running off and killing Aridea this moment would not end favorably. 

Deidre spoke up, “I don’t know if it matters but I was assaulted by an oneiromancer at twelve. So, I’m not new to what sex is.”

Julian was now pissed at both sets of parents for these girls, he decided that finding the other Witcher would have to wait just a moment. He turned around and crouched down, looking at both girls, “Being assaulted doesn’t mean you have an understanding of sex Deidre, and Renfri, after this we will be assassinating your step-mother, I’m sure it will be a wonderful bonding opportunity. Right now, we are going to enter this brothel and you two are not going to look around or so help me I will cover your eyes and we will find the Witcher Deidre has been looking for. Got it?”

Both nodded their head and Julian entered. Luckily, this brothel seemed to be set up like a small inn and customers each had their own rooms. They were greeted by a topless woman with curly black hair who greeted them with a smile. 

“What are you here for,” she said, not even bothering to ask about the two children. One nice thing about the red-light district, Julian thought, no prying questions. 

“Looking for a Witcher,” Julian said, “We know he’s here, we have to return his…..daughter to him.”

“Couldn’t have waited?” She asked. 

“On a bit of a time crunch I’m afraid,” Julian said. It was true, the longer they stayed int he city the more likely it was that Aridea would find them. 

The woman didn’t make a move so Julian placed a hefty pile of gold coins on the table next to her, “Please,” he said. 

She smiled, “Right this way,” and began walking down the hall. 

They kept walking, all the way to the back of the brothel where either very wealthy clients stayed or the Madame herself was. Either the Witcher had just gotten very lucky with a job or was owed a favor. She stopped outside of a red door and knocked once before opening. 

Julian out of reflex slapped a hand over Renfri and Deidre’s eyes, just in case. He would never forgive himself if Deidre’s vision of her supposed savior was in the nude. 

What he saw inside made him gasp in disbelief. 

“What is it?” Renfri asked, tearing off Julian’s hand. Deidre followed suit. 

A man who looked not much older than Julian himself sat on the floor inside. Unlike most Witchers, his face was free of scars and he had dark brown almost-black hair with a middle-parted bangs hanging down either side of his face. He was sitting next to a woman with curly red hair and bright blue eyes. Both of them had dresses on their laps and needles in their hands. It looked like the Witcher was here to…help put together outfits for the girls at the brothel. 

Both of them stopped what they were previously doing as the door opened and looked up. Julian knew the other Witcher recognized him. Well, he certainly didn’t know who he was or that he was the Nightingale Prince but he did recognize him as another Witcher. Julian figured there wasn’t really any more reason to hide his face so he pulled his hood down, letting the other man look him over properly. No further recognition. Good. 

The other Witcher stood up, “Who are you?” His voice was deep and metallic sounding, yet not harsh.

Shockingly it was Deidre who stepped forward and introduced herself. At the sound of her name, the Witcher’s face paled. 

“How did you find me?” He asked.

“If I focus enough, I can pinpoint your location from anywhere on the Continent.”

“So you can-“

“Tell you haven’t gone anywhere near Caingorn in order to avoid me? Yes.”

He looked away, and while it might not have shown in his eyes, Julian was able to smell the guilt lingering in the air, “If you knew I was avoiding you then why seek me out now?”

Deidre looked over at Julian for comfort and he nodded encouragingly, “There are mages after me, and I was convinced that I need further protection. I figured you were honor-bound to protect me.”

“I…can’t.”

Deidre looked angry, “You. Can’t?”

The Witcher was silent and Deidre stared him down. “Everyone Out.” She said and while she may have been a girl of just fourteen years of age, Julian, Renfri and the Madame all listened. 

They left the room, not that it mattered to Julian who could still hear everything that was being spoken. He motioned for the Madame and Renfri to stand back so he could hear clearly. Renfri got the signal at once and went over to the other side of the hall. 

For a moment there was silence, then a loud thump and Deidre began to yell.

“You were supposed to protect me!” She cried, and for once she sounded like the young girl she was, her seriousness wagon replaced with a raw pain. 

“You claimed me as your own and yet when I needed you most where were you? Somewhere in Temeria! Did you hear me cry? Did you feel me calling out for you?”

There was a pause and then the other Witcher began to speak in a soft voice, “I felt someone reaching out for me, around two years ago but I figured it was a fancy of a girl trying to explore her magic. You were a princess, raised in the lap of luxury, what use would I be?”

“Destiny didn't gift my life to you for nothing. Do you want to know why two years ago I cried out?”

Silence from the other man. Julian held his breath, knowing what was coming but he couldn’t bear to even think about it.

“You think I had luxury? I was raped. At 12 fucking years old I was raped by a man who claimed to be a mage, who said he would help me with my nightmares but that night he crept into my bed…I was a child. I was a lost and lonely child and I tried to cry for help but he covered my mouth and in the morning, he was gone and no one would believe me. I tried to talk to anyone but I was told to be overdramatic and lying to get attention. So I ran and hid in the woods living among the wolves until I was found. The worst part? I might have gone back to the castle if Julian hadn’t found me. If he hadn’t been there I would have gone back to my parents who told me I had dreamed the whole thing, that I was a cursed changeling child who should be grateful for simply being allowed to live. I needed you that night. I needed you and YOU WEREN’T THERE!”

With the last words, pure, raw chaos seemingly exploded from within the room. Julian himself was blown back as the door exploded, pushing him away. He was very happy he had sent Renfri down the hallway. She motioned to come towards him but he shook his head. 

He glanced into the room. There was dust hanging in the air from the, well, he had no other word for it, explosion. I was as if every piece of glass, every item of furniture had suddenly decided to shatter into a million pieces. Even the pillows in the bed weren’t safe from Deidre’s wrath, feathers floating gently to the floor. 

Then, in the middle of the room, on the floor, sat Deidre, sobbing, she was curled in on herself and was shaking like a leaf. Across the room on the floor the Witcher was sprawled out, limbs askew. However, he got up with a groan and when he sat up, Julian saw that his previously unmarred face now had terrible scratches across the right side of his face. He was bleeding profusely but didn’t seem to care. He made his way painfully slowly across the floor and reached out to Deidre. When she leaned into his touch he took that as acceptance and gathered her into his arms. She relaxed almost at once and her sobs began to abate. 

As Julian looked at the two of them, perfectly at ease in each other’s arms he thought about how it had taken months for Renfri to even be alright with holding his hand and how, even now, they still had days when their relationship felt strained and awkward. Looking at how comfortably Deidre and the Witcher fit together, two sides of the same coin, well, Julian truly believed in Destiny. 

He met the Witcher eyes across the room and came into the room slowly. Julian started whispering so only the other Witcher would be able to hear him.

“Your face is fucked up, do you have any potions on you?”

The man nodded and motioned to a bag that was miraculously untouched hiding underneath the bed. Julian crawled over and pulled it out. He fished around until he found Kiss and Swallow. He went over to the Witcher and offered them both. The man nodded and he poured them into his mouth. 

His eyes turned black and he shuddered a bit as he felt his skin begin to knit together. By this point, Deidre was completely asleep, having exhausted herself with the overuse of her magic. He stood up, still holding Deidre in his arms and said, “Thank you, my name is Eskel.”

“Pleasure, my name is Julian,” and wasn’t there something freeing in finally meeting another Witcher, in finally using his name again after all these years. Eskel huh? Something about that name sounded familiar but for the life of him Julian couldn’t remember why. 

They stepped out of the room and the Madame looked over at the two of them. She peaked into the room and sighed, “Eskel, darling, I hope your coin purse is deep because this will not be easy to repair.”

Eskel grimaced, “Don’t worry Genevieve, I’ll take care of it,” he looked over at Julian who got the hint and dug out the coin purse from the bag and handed it to Genevieve.

She dumped out practically the entirety of the coins onto her hands and ended up taking a large handful of gold coins. Genevieve gave a humpfing sound and said, “This should cover it, now please, get out of my sight with the little ones and if you come back, please come alone.”

She shooed them away but not before grabbing Julian’s arm and saying, “Your daughter is an absolute sweetheart. You’ve done a fantastic job with her.”

Julian blushed, no one had ever referred to Renfri as his daughter before. He supposed he looked the right age for it and they had similar coloring. He supposed they had never stayed in one place long enough to really talk with anyone. He looked over at her. She had been very quiet this entire trip and he walked over to her. 

“You’ve done great,'' he said.

She looked up at him, “Is Deidre safe now?”

Julian saw Eskel shift his weight a little so Deidre’s head could rest more easily on his shoulder, “I think she will be,” he said. 

The group now made up of four left the brothel and all at once the two wolves returned. They growled for a moment but settled down after seeing Deidre sleeping and took up residence on either side of Eskel. 

“If you’d like,” Julian offered, “I could get us a room at the nearest tavern.”

“Please,” Eskel said, and he was beginning to look just a touch overwhelmed with the addition of the wolves trailing after him.

They began walking down the street, out of the red-light district and Julian noticed Renfri looking over at Deidre with what might have been wistfulness. He was confused for a moment then smiled to himself as he understood.

“Hey little bird,” he said, leaning over to Renfri, “want a ride to the tavern.”

“Oh I think I’m much too old-“ She tried to protest but Julian just laughed and scooped her up onto his back. One good thing about the strength of a Witcher, never had to worry about your kids getting too big to carry. 

He almost crashed into a vendor’s cart after realizing what he just thought. Oh lords, he truly and actually considered Renfri his child. He had only been with her for two years now but in that time she had become the most meaningful part of his life and he couldn’t imagine living without her. He felt a protective desire cement itself in his heart. In that moment, he realized he would do absolutely anything to protect Renfri. 

The group reached a nice looking tavern without much complaint and Julian rented a room on the first floor with a window he could sneak the wolves into. There were two beds and Eskel laid Deidre down on one to rest a bit more. 

“If you are tired Renfri, you could get some sleep too,” Julian offered to her. 

“But what about Aridea?”

“Don’t worry about her for now, we’ve had a long day. I will take watch and we can discuss her in the morning.”

Renfri let out a yawn and had barely gotten her shoes off before she climbed into bed besides Deidre and fell asleep. 

Now it was just the two of them, Eskel and Julian in the room. The sun was setting, so Eskel made to get up and light some candles but Julian stopped him, taking care of it for him. He also pulled off his cloak, laying it onto a chair. The two of them sat down on the other bed in the room, facing each other. 

“First, let’s take a look at those wounds on your face. They were deep and even I know that Kiss and Swallow can’t take care of everything.”

Julian placed a washbasin on the bedside table and filled it from his waterskin. He got a rag and covered it in water before trying to gently clean the blood off of Eskel’s face. He flinched at the first touch of the cold water but then relaxed as the crusting blood was removed. 

Julian tried not to make any faces at the scars that would likely cover most of Eskel’s face. Right now, they were raw, red marks, gouging deep into his flesh. It was a series of scars on the right side of his face from his chin to his ear. It looked like a creature with many claws had managed to get a lucky strike in. But Julian knew it was the wild and terrified chaos of a young girl reliving her worst fears. 

Hopefully, the scars would lessen over time but they were made with magic so he couldn’t say for certain. 

“How bad is it?” Eskel asked.

“Well, you won’t be winning more beauty contests but it adds a certain character.”

“Winning any more? You flatter me. Here I was thinking I have never been fit enough to win any to begin with.”

Julian laughed, “If that’s the case, then be pleased to know your status has not changed. You have never won a contest of beauty and never will in the future.”

“Suppose it could have gone worse,” the jovial tone faded as Eskel said, “I think this is Destiny’s way of pushing me for abandoning my duty. She didn’t mean to do this, her magic lashed out at its first available target.”

Julian set down the rag and moved to put some ointments onto the scars, “And that target just so happened to be you.”

“Destiny is a bitch, but I was prideful to think I could outrun it forever. I’m sure you would know.”

Julian tased just a moment in bandaging up Eskel’s face, “What do you mean?”

“Your own girl? I’m assuming another Child Surprise. We Witchers really need to stop claiming that Law.”

“Oh she’s not a child surprise or any other such thing. There’s no destiny binding us together or prophecy foretelling our glorious future.”

With his one eye not covered in bandages, Eskel gave a confused glance to Julian, “Why is she with you?”

Julian considered this then said, “She needed me.”

“But surely you could have sent her somewhere else, hidden her away.”

“I suppose I could have, but when she asked for my help I couldn’t imagine turning her away. There’s something beautiful, I think, about not having a destiny tying you to another person but instead making a conscious choice each and every day to love someone else, to put their well being above your own even when you know there’s no reward.”

Eskel looked away, “And here we are, you a stranger helping a girl you hardly know and me, abandoning a gift from Destiny in her greatest time of need.”

Julian finished tying off the bandages with a small flourish, “Ah but, now you are here, and for her that is going to make all the difference.”

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Eskel said, “If you hadn’t found her in the woods if she had gone back to her family…I would never have come for her, I would never have found her. She would have been trapped in a home where she wasn’t wanted.”

This was the moment, Julian looked into Eskel’s golden eyes and asked, “And you do? Want her that is, you’ll protect her?”

“I do.”

“Good, because Girls of the Black Sun often have both unique traumas and powerful enemies. You are going to need to be prepared for both.”

“I’m already good enough on one of those,” Eskel said and from his bag he pulled out a pile of papers loosely bound together, “I made a compendium of girls of the black sun a few years back. I may have been too cowardly to protect my own but I wanted to understand why exactly they were so feared.”

He began to leave through the pages and then he clearly found the one he was searching for as he let out a soft gasp, “Here we are. At first, I was a bit confused as to your identity but there aren't many Black Sun girls traveling on the road, least of all in the company of a Witcher. You must be Nightingale, the slaughterer of Novigrad and that girl sleeping soundly on the bed is Princess Renfri of Creyden, the Shrike.”

Julian felt his hand go to the dagger on his hip, throughout this conversation Eskel had seemed trustworthy but he would never endanger Renfri’s safety no matter how charming the man was.

“And what are you going to do with this information.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Julian’s hand dropped from the dagger and he tilted his head, “Truly?”

“You introduced yourself to me as Julian which in all fairness, is likely a completely false name which I can respect. However, you did not come to me as The Nightingale Prince or the Slaughterer of Novigrad or anything other names you carry. You came to me as someone just trying to protect a young girl and I’d like to extend to you the same courtesy you’ve shown me.”

Julian was a bit abashed at Eskel’s assumption that Julian wasn’t his real name. Honestly, he hadn’t thought of giving a fake name and thanked the man for over-assuming his abilities.

“I’d really rather not let people know that the Nightingale Prince is actually a Witcher,” said Julian, “We already have a bad enough reputation as it is.”

“Among most Witchers, it’s a badly kept secret. We all know. Although I will admit most humans think you are an elf.”

“Of course they would.”

“In their defense, you did fight in the Great Cleansing.”

“I also have spent a few decades assassinating mages, what’s the point here.”

“You know, there’s a bet going around about which school you hail from.” Eskel looked at Julian’s chest and said, “I don’t see a medallion, but with the assassin angle, are you a Viper?”

Julian rolled his eyes, although he did thank whatever higher power there was that Eskel hadn’t guessed correctly, “As if I would tell you,” he said instead.

“Keep your secrets,” Eskel shrugged, “Although I do have to give you points for managing to be the worst Witcher ever. Have you ever even killed a kikimore?”

“I’ve never been on the path and I avoid swamps like the plague so no.”

Eskel let out a soft laugh, mindful of the two sleeping girls across the room, “Never? Well, we will have to go on a contract sometime together. Four swords are always better than two.”

Julian considered this for a moment, imagined Eskel and Deidre, him and Renfri, taking contracts around the continent and traveling the path together. Maybe he could find his medallion again, be a real Witcher. He shook his head, after everything he had done, that was a mere fantasy. He had a mission. He wouldn’t be satisfied on the path. Julian needed to take down the Brotherhood. And Renfri needed her revenge, 

“Maybe one day,” he said. 

“Another question,” Eskel said, “what exactly are you planning to do with Queen Aridea?”

“Ah, well, we are planning to kill her, preferably by poison.”

“Why would you need to do that?”

“She won’t stop sending assassins after Renfri and we’d really like it to stop.”

“That’s as fair a reason as any, want some help?”

Julian shrugged, “We can ask Renfri in the morning, it’s her step-mother we are killing after all.”

With that, the two of them settled in for bed and for a while Eskel tossed and turned, having to constantly remind himself not to lie on the side of his face currently covered in horrendous scratches, they both eventually drifted off into sleep. 

When Julian woke up, Eskel and Deidre were both gone. For a moment, he wondered if they had already left but then the door opened to reveal Eskel carrying a tray with bread and jam. Deidre trailed behind him. Her two wolves were lounging at the foot of the bed still and Renfri had been awoken by the sound of the door. 

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, “Whoissit?” She sleepily called out. 

Julian leaned up onto his elbows and grinned at Eskel who was making his way over to Julian with the tray, “Breakfast in bed, you are spoiling me.” 

Eskel laughed and turned away, heading towards Renfri, “Who said it was for you?”

Julian sat up fully and reached his arm out, “Wait, forget I said anything! My house for your bread.”

“You don’t even have a house to bargain with Julian,” Renfri said, getting out of bed and snatching a piece off of bread off the tray and lathering it with jam. 

He groaned before giving in and rolling out of bed, “Alright, apologies oh great Witcher of…”

Julian trailed off, realizing he had never actually found out what school Eskel was from. The other Witcher took pity on him, finishing his sentence for him. 

“Kaer Morhen.”

“Ah, thanks.”

They ate a companionable breakfast together, Eskel and Deidre had clearly had some sort of discussion that morning and while they didn’t look completely comfortable around each other, there was a silent agreement between them. Julian noticed that Eskel’s bandages had been changed and Deidre had likely been the one to change them. 

“So,” Eskel began, “are we killing the Queen today or not?”

“Julian!” Renfri cried out and he held his hands out in front of him in mock supplication.

“He heard some things last night and I figure he’s plenty trustworthy, after all, he has his Deidre to look after now.”

Deidre huffed, “More like I’ll be looking after him.”

Eskel sighed and glanced upwards, “Gods help me,” he said.

Julian faced Eskel, “The two of us,” he said, motioning between himself and Renfri, “Have been planning on how to kill Aridea for days. The cleanest option would be poison however our main roadblock is that he has no idea how to sneak it past the servant who tastes the food.”

Renfri spoke up, “We were thinking about bribing a servant but they wouldn’t go for it. Whatever servant let poison slip into the Queen’s food would find their lives forfeit.”

Eskel thought for a bit and then spoke up, “Have you considered avoiding the tester altogether?”

“That’s not possible,” Julian said, “Someone always tastes her food before she eats, the Queen has many enemies. Even worse, she watches them eat it and waits up to ten minutes to make sure it’s safe.”

“She knows how much a bitch she is and knows just how many people want to kill her,” Renfri said.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” said Eskel, “What if, there wasn’t a servant because you were the servant. Julian, does she know your face?”

Julian paused, “No, she doesn’t.”

“So if you were to sneak into the palace and take the place of the servant you could theoretically put the poison into her food and take White Honey to mitigate the effects for yourself.”

“Do you have any White Honey with you, I’m afraid I don’t have, well, any potions on me,” Julian said. 

Eskel rummaged in his bag, “You are lucky I’m a rather good alchemist. I hope you have poison at the ready?”

“Of course I do,” Julian said, “I was an assassin for decades. I can just take a few with me and decide on the most appropriate one for the dish.”

Eskel nodded and handed Julian a vile with a pale yellow liquid inside, “I trust you remember how to use it?”

“Just because I’m out of practice doesn’t mean I’m out of memory.”

In the end, breaking into the palace was much easier than expected. For one thing, Renfri had to stay back with Eskel and Deidre. Not only did Queen Aridea know what Renfri looked like, but guards were also crawling around every corner, by this point clearly having heard tell of their arrival in the city. She would be especially conspicuous to this little venture. It was decided that Julian would crawl into the palace through the only unprotected entryway, the garbage chute. This led right into the kitchens and from there he could disable a server and take his place. 

There were two horses grazing nearby that Eskel had procured for them. If anything went wrong Julian would have to make a quick getaway. 

The small group of four reached the garbage. There was a large pile of rotting food and the smell was atrocious. 

“This is digusting,” Deidre said.

Renfri plugged her nose closed, “How the fuck are you going to pass a servant smelling like this?”

“Language,” Julian corrected automatically but inside he was trying to think. Well, if he wasn’t near Renfri he would be able to use signs again.

“I suppose I could try and cast Aard to whisk it off of me.”

Eskel laughed, “I don’t think there had ever been a Witcher to use signs for impromptu bathing.”

“Perhaps I could be the first,” Julian retorted, “gods know many of you need it.”

He saved them goodbye and climbed into the large cylindrical opening. It was just large enough for him to be able to walk through while crouched over. Unfortunately, Renfri was correct, The smell was absolutely awful and his enhanced sense made it all the worse. 

It was a steep climb uphill and he had to press his shoes in heavily to the sides in order to stop himself from slipping. However, soon he heard the sound of voices and then a slopping noise as food slid down the stone pipe. 

He watched it go between his legs and then continued to head towards the growing pinprick of light. 

Julian made sure there wasn’t the sound of servant throwing refuse away before he pulled himself up into the small courtyard right outside of the kitchens. 

Never before had he been so glad to have not worn his armor, the simple white shirt and brown breeches would be easy to change in and out of as well as inconspicuous. He cast aard over himself, letting the strong current of air refresh him. Small chunks of rotten food on his legs flew off and while he didn’t smell wonderful he no longer held the lingering scent of rotten food.

He entered the kitchen and quickly grabbed a tray of bread. The one nice thing about trying to filtrate a castle through the kitchen was that, if you looked busy enough, very few people would try to stop you or even notice you. It was always a bustling, wild hub of activity and Julian made his way through without incident. 

When he left the kitchens, he turned a corner and found a nice hidden alcove. Dinner was likely to be served any minute and he just had to wait here until a hapless servant wandered by. 

Within just a few minutes, the procession of servants carrying trays for dinner appeared. He watched them go by carefully until the very last servant came by, carrying the meat dish. 

Quick as he could, Julian grabbed the dish, holding it high above his head and putting the servant into a chokehold. Within moments, the servant was passed out cold. No one had noticed and the others continued walking forward as Julian pulled the body back into the small alcove. He set the food down, careful not to damage it at all, and changed into the uniform. 

It was not very pleasant to wear, a red tunic with the crest of Creyden emblazoned on the chest and a truly ridiculous large hat with a feather on it. Julian sighed, trying to be thankful for the hat as it would help conceal his identity. Luckily, the servant had the same general height and skin tone to himself so he might not be caught out immediately. His hair would be hidden under the hat and hopefully his face would be a little shadowed. 

Julian looked over the dish. It appeared to be duck with a gooseberry sauce. Ah, yes he had the perfect poison for this. He took out extract of nightshade berries and poured it onto the duck so it blended in with the gooseberry sauce. It would taste delicious but would kill the queen in minutes. 

He grabbed the dish and hurried in the direction the other servants had gone and found his way to the dining hall. Just before turning the corner, Julian quickly drank the White Honey. 

Each of the servants had placed a dish on the table and as he entered the room he saw one of them taking a bite. The queen was at the head, her husband to the left of her and the children to the right. Julian walked over and placed the dish in front of her. He kept his back to all the other servants, not wanting them to notice something amiss. 

Queen Aridea was caught up in conversation with the King and barely glanced at him. She waved her hand without saying anything at all and Julian mimicked what he had seen a servant do earlier and used the small tin fork that came with the dish to take a bite of the food, sauce, and all. Then he retreated against the wall where the other servants stood. In this moment, he was very grateful for social etiquette that did not allow them to look at one another. 

He will give this to Creyden’s chefs, it was delicious. He couldn’t even taste the poison. However, within a few minutes, he felt his stomach clench and Julian had to work hard to keep his stance neutral. Queen Aridea did not so much as touch her food until an hourglass next to her was empty. Then, she took helpings of much of the food around her, just as Julian had hoped, she took a large piece of the duck. 

Luckily, the King and her son did not. It would have been a shame if Renfri’s other family had been killed as well. When she took the first bite of the poison, Julian felt a thrill go through him. Clearly, she thought it was delicious as well and had polished off a piece in minutes. Any moment now, she would begin to feel its effects. 

Then, the doors to the halls were pushed open and a mostly naked man ran into the room, “INTRUDER IN THE CASTLE,” he cried, “someone has gone and stolen my uniform!”

The Queen stood up at once and looked over at the servants against the wall. Her eyes fell on Julian quickly and once she saw his golden eyes her own widened. She drew a sword from her side and began to advance towards Julian. However, before she could even take a step she collapsed onto the floor, twitching with white foam coming from her mouth.

All at once, the hall erupted into chaos. The guards hadn’t seen which servant she was going for and as such were now attempting to restrain all of them. Julian rolled his eyes and moved towards the Queen. 

He pushed her onto her back, looking into her eyes which still held a semblance of life.

“The Shrike always finds her prey,” he said. 

Then, ignoring and ducking around guards trying to corral servants into a corner and pushing past panicking nobles and stepping on overturned plates of food, Julian made his way out of the hall and began running. 

Bells were ringing around as Julian ran through the kitchens and practically leapt into the garbage chute. He slid down the pile of rotten food, trying desperately not to smell too much of what exactly he was sliding through. At the end of the chute, he got out, grimacing at the bits of rotten food hanging to him. He tried to use aard and sighed when the sign didn’t work. 

Renfri was just above him, holding onto the lead of a horse. Eskel and Diedre were already mounted on a horse. 

“Did it work?” Renfri asked.

“Oh you bet it did,” Julian replied.

“And the thing? Did you say it.”

“Yes,” Julian said, swinging up onto the other horse and then pulling Renfri behind him, “I did.”

“Was it perfect?”

“If you mean did she die in agony, confused, yes, yes she did.”

Julian couldn’t see it but he imagined that Renfri was smiling behind him. He looked over at Eskel and then kicked his horse’s side. Their two horses began to ride off at a trot. They had to get out of Creyden as rapidly as possible. It would only be a matter of minutes before the guards would find them. 

The backside of the castle was not near the city proper so they left Creyden from its southern walls and the sound of warning bells grew fainter. After nearly an hour of hard riding, with Creyden far gone in the distance, the group stopped for a moment to rest. 

“We did it Julian, we actually did it,” Renfri said.

“That we did little bird.”

Eskel came up beside them, “You know,” he said, “I’m taking Deidre to Kaer Morhen, she’ll be safe there. I imagine Renfri would be too. And while you are not a wolf, well, we’d be happy to have you.”

Julian remembered Kaer Morhen, remembered the bodies piling up in the courtyards and the glow of the villager’s torches on the stones. He felt his hand lift to his neck where Stregobor’s scar sat. They couldn’t rest yet, he looked down at Renfri who shook her head. 

“Thank you for the offer,” Julian said, “but we aren’t done just yet. There’s one more man we need to take care of.”

Eskel shrugged, “How about we let the girls say goodbye to each other, we cant have a short talk over here.”

They left the two behind and Eskel led him just a few feet away near some trees. 

“Julian, or whatever your name really is, I admire your….mission, I suppose but is this the path you want for Renfri? All this killing, the endless revenge where will it lead you?”

Julian felt anger rise in his chest, “All this, from a man who spent the last decade running from his child surprise, how dare you assume what is best for Renfri.”

“I’m not assuming anything,” Eskel replied, “I just wonder when this will end for you. I may not know much about you personally but I’ve heard the rumors.”

Julian leaned in closely to Eskel, letting his breath grow hot on the other’s face, “And what exactly have you heard?”

“That you won’t stop until every mage on the continent is dead or repentant.”

“And do you believe them?”

“I believe that if that is true you put Renfri in more danger than you help her with.”

“I’ve trained her.”

“One day, she will face an enemy that is stronger and faster than her. We all have or will. On that day, she will let her guard down for just a moment and she could end up hurt or dead, can you have that on your conscious?”

He turned away. Julian had spent long nights imagining Renfri ending up in a dangerous situation he couldn’t protect her from. All it took was one moment and she’d have a knife through her neck. Still, “It’s not my mission alone. She has her own scores to settle.”

Eskel shook his head, “Should you let her?”

“It’s not a question of should I let her, she will do want she wants, I’m here to help her do it safely.”

“On your head be it,” Eskel said as he turned away, “You know, the offer of Kaer Morhen still stands. There aren’t many of us left now but a fair number of us spend the winters there. Vesemir, master of the keep would be happy to have you.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would,” Julian said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. He hadn’t parted the best of ways with Vesemir, the ignorance of his warning still feeling heavy in his mind.

“You know him?”

“Lifetimes ago.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind I’m sure you know where the keep is. It’s not just wolves either, the past few years we’ve had a Griffin staying with us, Coën.”

Julian felt his heart freeze in his chest. He hadn’t thought about Coën in years. He had been his closest friend at Kaer Seren and if mages hadn’t attacked, he had been planning on joining him on the path. He had thought the man dead. To know that there was someone else left? It burned in his chest. What could Julian say to Coën, a man he hadn’t seen in decades. He had unknowingly abandoned him this entire time. For years, Julian had looked for rumors of remaining Griffins but not once had Coën’s name appeared. If he had known perhaps he wouldn’t have turned to mercenary work perhaps...well, Julian didn’t want to think about it. 

Even if he went with Eskel, what would be the point? Stregobor was still out there and he wouldn’t stop until Julian and Renfri stopped him. He was inspiring other mages and spreading hate across the continent. He needed to be stopped. And there was nothing Julian could say to Coën that would fix the years of abandonment. Maybe once Stregobor was dead. Maybe then. This is assuming Coën even remembered the punk a few years younger than him. Julian had always thought them the best of friends but memories had a funny way of remembering only the good when they were deeply missed. 

“I’ll let you know,” Julian said at last to Eskel. 

They went back to the girls and Julian did not comment on Renfri’s tears as she hugged Deidre tightly.

“Stay safe,” she whispered, and then the group of four split up. 

Eskel and Deidre headed east to Kaer Morhen and Renfri and Julian headed south. They had a mage to find. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY ITS SO LONG OKAY ESKEL AND DEIDRE WANTED TO BE A BIGGER PART THAN I ORIGINALLY PLANNED. I also had the realization that I write like every chapter is an episode of a tv show. Like, you want to watch them together to get a complete story but every chapter had like its own mini-arc
> 
> Also since people seem to like my end notes discussion stuff let’s talk about Deidre and the changes I made 
> 
> Or originally Eskel DOES manage to avoid Deidre and they never find each other when she’s a kid instead, Deidre returns to her family And Eskel continues Witchering. Then, almost a decade later her brother Merwin enlists the help of a Sabrina to try and send Deidre away so he can claim the throne. Deidre goes on the run and ends up asking for amnesty at Kaer Morhen. Depending on your choices in the game you can decide to help her or not but whatever the outcome she ends up giving Eskel his scars and leaving. The whole time Eskel is very distant and regretful, not really knowing what to do with Deidre. 
> 
> So in this universe I said fuck it and now Eskel has a daughter. He also got his scars years earlier so that’s sad. 
> 
> Fun Fact: Eskel's name sounds familiar because in Geralt's little poem from chapter 2 he mentions Eskel as his roommate and also YES I resued the name of the girl Julian makes out w/ from Creyden in Chapter 2 BECAUSE IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE SAME WOMAN. She grew up, said fuck you to her dad, and became the Madame of a brothel and besties with a Witcher. Genevieve is the 2-sentence side character with probably the most amazing backstory ever. 
> 
> Shout-out to the VERY SMALL callbacks that no one is likely to notice. 
> 
> I loved writing Julian and Renfri’s relationship and also adding in Deidre and Eskel for good measure, let me know what you think!!


	7. Renfri's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renfri makes a choice

Renfri had traveled to the sea once when she was very little. The ocean was warm near Creyden and her hair had dried in salty spikers around her head. Her mother had been there, long hair plaited high onto her head and she had tutted gently over Renfri’s thick curls, “You are quite the adventurous girl Renfri,” her mother had said, “let’s hope that doesn’t get you into trouble one day.”

The former queen was a vague and distant memory to Renfri. She remembered small, unimportant details, the wave of her hair, the curl of her smile and the sound of her voice as she sang. But Renfri couldn’t remember the color of her mother’s eyes or her favorite food. Memory was funny that way. Perhaps if her father had told her more stories of her mother or she had seen more portraits, it would be different. However, her father had moved on quickly and her step-mother Aridea would have never permitted Renfri to know more about her mother. She didn’t like competition. 

It was no surprise she tried to have Renfri killed. Queen Aridea wanted nothing more than to secure her child's place as heir. The first assassination attempt happened inside the palace walls when she was ten. Unfortunately, the mercenary failed and the King only doubled Renfri’s guard, not realizing his new wife had ordered the hit. So the Queen tried a new tactic, she knew that Renfri was born during an eclipse and had some form of magic so she began framing Renfri for increasingly awful actions. Tearing out a maid’s eyes or killing animals. One morning, Renfri had woken up to find her faithful pet dog with its throat slit on her floor. Her screaming had been called an admission of guilt. Her father, the King, turned a blind eye to all of this. In fact, in the months leading up to Renfri’s departure. He had spoken to her perhaps once. 

When Stregobor arrived, it was not to the bright, adventurous child she had been, but a jaded young girl who knew that people would use any excuse to get to the top. He had started out polite and kind, asking her about her hobbies and abilities. Then, once she had shown herself not to be so naive he had become accusatory. She was a product of dark magic, he said, and needed to be observed and controlled. He told her she was a danger to others and it would be in the best interest of everyone if she came with him. 

The tantrum she threw caused Stregbor to back off in order to avoid a royal incident. Then he talked to her father and Renfri was informed she would submit to the Mage’s examinations. She wasn’t stupid, she knew what happened to girls of the Black Sun. So she ran. It was simply bad luck that the Queen saw her leaving and sent a man to kill her as she left the palace walls. In that forest, with the man pushing her into the hard ground, she truly feared for herself. Then, Julian arrived and his distraction was all she needed to finish the thug once and for all. 

Julian changed her life. Without him, she would have fallen in with a band of thieves within the year, or, if the numerous prophecies she was told were to be believed, would have been trapped in a crystal, an enchanted sleep, or become a bandit queen. While the last one was certainly an attractive prospect, Renfri was told that she would have to wait until she was older. 

For the first time in her life, she had someone who would look after her, who would set boundaries and truly teach her. Renfri had come to understand that she had a form of anti-magic that could negate the chaos around her. No enchantment, illusion, or spell had ever touched her. Only objects themselves with magic could touch her and even then, their spells wouldn’t affect her. Her and Julian spent years figuring out the limits of her anti-magic and teaching her how to fight. Renfri knew she was still young, but her skills with a sword were easily at the level of a fully-trained Witcher. Not that Julian would ever admit it, but she had been him once or twice in sparring. She had found far too many Witchers relied on signs. 

But in many ways, it was the small moments she remembered the most. Just like she remembered the curve of her mother’s smile she saw the light in Julian’s eyes as he laughed. She thought of how he loved to tell long-winded stories and when she had trouble sleeping, would always sing her to sleep in a soft, lilting voice. They did not often stay in towns due to fear of either recognition or giving away their location to their assorted pursuers so Renfri was raised in the woods. She knew how to find her way in a forest better than in any town and her feet felt more stable on unstable ground. At night, Renfri would look up at the stars and listen to Julian as he told her story after story of how they came to be in the sky and she would hear a beat in her heart thrumming,  _ I am home, I am home, I am home _ . 

It wasn’t until the madame of a whorehouse in Creyden called Julian her father that she realized exactly what he had done for her. This legendary Witcher, the Nightingale Prince had allowed a twelve-year-old runaway to follow him around and instead of ditching her at the nearest town, he had taken her in. He had clothed her, fed her, and taught her. Julian showed a hell of a lot more care that either of her parents could and genuinely cared about helping her grow into who she wanted to be, not who she was expected to be. He was her father in all the ways that mattered and although they never said anything to each other there was almost a silent understanding. On the few occasions after Eskel and Deidre the two of them met strangers, they introduced themselves as father and daughter. It always brought a warm feeling behind Renfri’s chest. 

Deidre. The other girl had been Renfri’s first real friend and after they met, Julian tried his hardest to help them stay in contact with each other. The communication between them was by no means consistent especially as when it wasn’t winter, both parties spent the year moving around the continent but they made do. They would pay lots of money to send messengers from one city to another, or they would send letters ahead to cities where they were going to be rather than where they currently were. It was helpful that nowadays Julian and Renfri were in the full-time business of Stregobor hunting and no longer had any assassins after them courtesy of Aridea. 

Through their letters, Renfri grew close to Deidre. She loved hearing about the blonde girl’s adventures. Deidre definitely knew more than her about fighting creatures and would spend pages explaining the kikimore mine she helped Eskel clean out or the alderman that refused to pay the Witcher. Over the next few years, Renfri was able to watch as Eskel and Deidre grew closer. It felt nice, she thought, to know that her and Julian had really helped someone. 

Beyond her stories, Renfri simply liked Deidre She was sarcastic and witty, her writing always quick and brought a laugh to Renfri’s eyes. For days after a letter, she would have a smile on her face whenever she thought of a particularly sarcastic line or inside joke. Julian was just happy that Renfri had another friend. Sometimes, they would meet up with Eskel and Deidre but never near other Witchers and always quickly, in secret. 

One day, Renfri would join Deidre and they would go on the path together. While they might not have any mutagens of a Witcher, they both had enough training and skill to take on any monsters they might find. As well, a lot of the attacks different creatures used were chaos-adjacent and as such affected the two of them less. More recently, their letters had begun to imagine a future together on the path. Julian had asked if he would be allowed to visit them once the two girls absconded on their marital monster-killing spree. 

Renfri had blushed, he picked up on things far too easily. The last time Renfri had seen Deidre they had parted ways with a small kiss and Julian loved how much it had flustered her. Both Renfri and Deidre knew that they couldn’t quite have a real relationship right now, what with Deidre on the run from Sabrina and Renfri hunting down Stregobor. But one day, one day she hoped they could truly find each other. 

Now Renfri found herself at the sea once more. She was seventeen, nearly a woman in her own right, and Julian was staring blankly out into the open ocean. They were near an abandoned Witcher Keep. The Griffin Keep Julian had told her. Stregobor had been sighted in Poviss and Julian had just known that the mage was going for the keep. 

The journey here, Julian had been oddly silent. He hadn’t talked much and while Renfri knew he was a Witcher, he hadn’t ever talked about the school he was from or his past before the Elven War. Now, she walked up to him as he stared out at the sea and put her hand on his arm.

“Julian?” She called out gently.

He started for a moment then turned to face her, he almost seemed to go right through her as he said, “Yes, sorry little bird, is there something you need?”

“Julian, something hasn’t been right since we started moving towards Poviss. If there’s something you're not talking about, I need to know.”

The Witcher let out a long breath before sinking to the sand. He patted the area next to him and she sat. When he started speaking, he wasn’t looking at her but out at the sea. The faint moonlight caught his golden eyes and had that unsettling Witcher effect of making them glow. 

“Before Dol Blathanna, before you, Kaer Seren, the Keep of the Griffin witcher was my home. We were one of the smaller Witcher schools but also more specialized in magic. I would love to say you would have loved it but honestly your anti-magic would have sent Old Keldar into conniptions,” Julian let out a soft laugh before continuing.

“Honestly, you would have made a better Wolf, fierce and loyal to a fault. Sometimes I wonder what you are doing with this Griffin. I was, believe it or not, a rather attentive student. I had just passed by trials and was preparing to head out on the path when the attack happened.”

Renfri notices a darkness in his eyes, “I never got a good look at any of them but mages surrounded the keep and caused an avalanche that killed most of us. Then, the two remaining Witchers, Keldar and Jerome, lit the library on fire to destroy the books the mages were looking for. They gave their lives to protect me and the grimoire I had.”

“What happened to the grimoire?” Renfri asked. 

“I hid it,” Julian replied, “Somewhere Stregobor will never find it. My medallion is there too. But he’s been obsessed with finding that grimoire for as long as I’ve known him. I imagine that’s why he’s returned to Kaer Seren, to search for it once more.”

“But we can stop him here.”

“I know the terrain there. It’s familiar.”

Renfri nods and leans into Julian’s side. He’s clearly wrestling with his inner demons but eventually he relaxes into her in return. They sit there in silence, listening to the sounds of the waves and in Renfri hears a few sobs escape from Julian while he’s caught up in his memories, well, she doesn’t draw attention to it. She lets him grieve. 

The next day, the two of them begin the hike up to Kaer Seren. It’s set into the mountain overlooking the sea so the hike is steep but the two of them are used to such treks. 

While they walk up, Julian is instructing Renfri on Stregobor’s weaknesses, “Again, he’s a master illusionist but you will be able to see through his illusions, however, any real object he summons will be able to attack you so watch out. He will keep his distance to avoid getting caught up in your aura but also due to the fact that he’s awful at close-distance combat.”

Renfri nodded, absorbing the information. They could do this. As they drew closer to the keep the sun began to dim and a fog began to creep out from the underbrush. There were pine trees all around them and then, slowly, out of their darkening surroundings a stone wall began to appear. Most of the wall seemed to be in fair condition, but others were crushed with huge rocks and the debris was scattered about. They moved past the wall and Renfri felt her sense on edge as she saw scorch marks in the grass. 

Then she saw the ruins of Kaer Seren. It was the skeleton of a large and gaping stone structure, with one collapsed tower she could see lying on its side and another barely standing. The main building was covered in what looked like an entire side of the mountain. Massive boulders created gaping maws in the keep. Everywhere, the stone was blackened and at the epi-center of the remnants of fires past was a pile of burned leather and stone that was the only part untouched by the landslide. 

Neither of them spoke, too worried about Stregobor being nearby and hearing them. However, Renfri knew this was the library. 

Then, she heard a snap. She turned towards the sound at the same time as Julian. However, he must have heard something she did not because he called out, “I know it’s you Stregobor!”

The mage must have employed an illusion. Then, out of one of the stone structures, a rotted body shambled out from behind it. It looked like the body of a child, though it was hard to tell the age and it was hardly more than a pile of bones loosely held together by sagging flesh. There was a rasping noise coming from it that might have been words if the creature had air to breathe. 

Clearly, Julian did not see what she saw and Renfri suspected Stregobor was employing an illusion. 

“Alucard,” Julian breathed out and began to walk towards the corpse, hand out in supplication. 

Renfri wanted to stop the creature there and then but she was distracted by the other shadows she saw moving. There were more reanimated corpses coming out of the ruins, all coming towards them. She searched wildly for any sign of Stregobor but couldn’t find a trace of him. Julian hadn’t even drawn his sword. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, “I didn’t want to leave you, I’ve remembered you, I promise, I promise.”

Julian drew closer to the figure and Renfri gave up searching for Stregobor’s figure in the shadows and instead struck out with her sword and lopped off the creature’s head. It staggered then dropped to the ground, unmoving. Julian shook his head as if coming out of a trance and then looked at the ground. 

“Oh gods,” he said, “Renfri, what did you see?”

“I see a corpse, and apologies, but there are plenty more where those came from.”

He looked around and saw that now there must have been almost a hundred corpses surrounding them. They hadn’t lunged yet but were gently swaying as if in an invisible breeze in a circle surrounding them. Julian and Renfri stood in the center of the macabre circle, fog surrounding them and the decapitated corpse of a child at their feet. 

“What do you see now?” Renfri asked Julian. 

“I see the faces of my friends,” he replied, “They look….they look as if they are alive once more, standing in front of me.”

Then, appearing without a sound, the corpses moved aside and Stregobor stepped through. 

He was wearing rich blue robes and his face remained unchanged from when Julian had seen him last. 

“The Shrike and the Nightingale, here at last,” he said. 

Renfri couldn’t even be happy with the fact that he had put her title first. She pulled her leg back into a lunging position and said, “Stregobor,” with as much venom as she could muster.

“Not now girl,” the mage said, his voice dismissive, “I want to talk to your vaulted protector. Listen here Nightingale, I understand that you and mages have been enemies in the past but that was simply mercenary work. This girl is evil and has the power to put men’s hearts under her control. You likely can’t even tell she’s controlling you. Work for me and I will pay double your asking price and free you from her spell.”

Julian stood there, and Renfri could see the shock clear in his body language

When he spoke, Julian’s voice was quiet but it carried across the darkened clearing, “You don’t know me at all, do you?”

Stregobor stilled, “I don’t believe we’ve personally met.”

Then Julian laughed, it was long and hoarse and Renfri, for the first time, was worried for Julian. He tore off his mask, tossing it off to the side and lowered his hood, revealing his golden cat-eyes.

“Trust me, you bastard, we’ve met.”

A look of surprise crossed Stregobor’s face, “You can’t be.”

“Oh but I am, and let me tell you, I do not appreciate this little illusion forcing me to gaze upon the faces of my long-dead family.”

Stregobor shook his head, “The illusion was in hopes of you knowing one or two of these corpses, but nearly all of them? I suppose I am glad my spell could have such an effect on you. With this knowledge in mind, there is no hope for you, however, I desperately want that grimoire that was taken from me.”

“I would love to help but I’m afraid it’s long gone.”

Stregobor shrugged, “I’m sure that’s not true, you could never bring yourself to destroy it, I suppose I will have to simply pry the location out of your mind.”

With that, Stregobor waved his arms and orange tendrils whipped out of his hands, heading for Julian. Renfri saw it coming and she leapt in front of the line of fire, the tendrils dying out once they reached her.

Stregobor snarled, “Stay out of the way girl, I will have time for you later.”

Then he waved his hand and suddenly the previously still corpses began to shamble towards Renfri. She tried to stay near Julian in an effort to dispel the magic Stregobor was sending towards him but the corpses came between them and before long she had her hands full decapitating dead bodies left and right. 

The army of the dead was simply a path to keeping her occupied and out of the way while Stregobor took care of Julian. After that, he would come for her. Renfri knew it. However, it did not make this distraction any less difficult to handle or less exhausting. 

Occasionally, through the fog, she would look over and see Stregobor and Julian fighting in the distance. They were both far enough away from her that they were casting magic with abandon, spells flying rapidly from Stregobor and signs from Julian. Stregobor was clearly using plenty of illusion magic as Julian was fighting a fair number of foes that did not seem to exist. 

If she could simply get close enough to Stregobor she could nullify his illusions but she currently had her hands full with the army of the undead. 

The corpses had little in the way of weapons other than their bony hands, very few of them even had teeth in their skulls. Yet their sheer numbers were overwhelming and Renfri found herself losing the battle. She had to stop this, she had to get to Julian. It was difficult to see him now, through the corpses trying to reach her, but she could see that he was growing tired. 

Renfri knew she was losing. She had to change tactics but what could she do? She tried to feel for her anti-magic but she couldn’t quite reach it. Wait. There. A tendril of other magic reached out in front of her. She followed the trail to its source and saw that it led to the skeleton in front of her. She knew what she had to do. 

  
The undead overcame her and she let herself be pulled down into their masses, their bony fingers scraping at her but Renfri tried not to focus on the pain. She focused on grabbing each tendril of magic tied to the undead. Once she had them all within her hands, she pulled. The Earth itself seemed to shake as the ties the undead had to the earth were snapped free and then every one of corpses dropped to the ground, unmoving. 

  
She had done it. Renfri stood up, wincing as the pain appeared from the numerous lesions on her arms and face where the armor didn’t quite cover her and began to crawl over the bodies. There were so many, she had estimated about a hundred before and she was glad she had been able to de-animate them. There was no other way she could have escaped. 

Off in the distance, Renfri could see flashes of magic. Most Witcher signs were both silent and colorless so it seemed a one-sided battle. Let it not be said that most mages were stealthy in battle. 

When she arrived, Julian was still a fair distance away from Stregobor who seemed mainly interested in keeping this a long-distance battle. He was absolute shit at anything close range. There were massive walls of vines attacking Julian from every angle and he was slicing up the ones that kept coming to strike at him. Julian was slowly making progress but not fast enough. However, she also knew Stregobor couldn’t keep this up for much longer. He looked tired and she was sure he was straining his chaos in this battle. 

The mage looked over and saw her so Renfri made a quick decision. She began to run towards him, sword raised and ready. His eyes widened and then he looked at her, free of the army he had raised and looked at Julian who was growing ever closer using a massive blast of Igni to free himself from the vines. 

He said something that Renfri couldn’t make out over the roar of blood in her mind and then simply stepped back through a portal and vanished. She reached him just in enough time to slice at the air where the portal had been just moments before. 

She let out a scream of frustration and plunged her sword into the ground. He had escaped. This was the closest they had been able to get to him in years and he had simply escaped. Goddamnit. He would never stop trying to kill her, but it was always from a distance. If only she could get close to him she could be free. Renfri knew she would never be free from him. Her body began to shake as tears of pure exhaustion fell from her eyes. He would find her and kill her before she ever had a chance to stop him. 

Hunched over her sword in the cold fog she felt absolutely hopeless. Then she heard the soft sound of footfalls behind her and looked back. Julian was standing there, looking a little worse for wear, his armor scuffed and his eyes tired. He crouched down next to her and put his arms over her shoulder. He gently guided her up, grabbing her sword as he stood.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Julian said and Renfri couldn’t do anything but nod in agreement. She was just so fucking tired of this endless fight. 

The two of them went back to where they had set camp and Julian quickly went for the disinfectant. Renfri walked over to a river and began to wash the blood off her cuts. There weren’t many, she was well-armored and bones could hardly work their way through most leathers but her forearms, face, and neck had all been exposed and there were gashes on her arms. She felt a sharp cut on her cheek and a few on her necks but her arms had definitely taken the worst of the fight. 

Julian came over and handed her a poultice that she poured onto her cuts. “Come here,” he said gently and she leaned her face towards his hand, letting him bandage up the cut on her face.

“Are you hurt at all?” She asked and Julian shook his head. That didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t hurt, but Renfri hoped that his potions and healing factor would help and it wasn’t anything too serious. Julian hated making her worry. 

“We will find him you know,” Julian said but Renfri just shook her head.

“No we won’t, no matter what happens he can just portal away to anywhere on the continent. It’s a wild goose chase.”

Here, Julian looked thoughtful, “I don’t know if he’ll be able to portal away again for a while. Mages aren’t meant to use chaos at the level he did. I’m sure he is going to be magically exhausted for a while. I’d be surprised if he can so much as cast a ward currently. This is the perfect time to find him.”

“But how? He could be anywhere on the continent.”

Julian smiled, “I think I know someone who could help.”

A few days later, having bought some horses in Poviss, Renfri found herself in a seemingly abandoned field. Julian had been purposefully vague about who exactly they were meeting and had rebuffed all of Renfri’s questions. She was growing impatient and her disbelief was stretched a bit thin when Julian dismounted and instructed her to tie their horses to a nearby tree.

“There’s nothing around for miles,” she said, “where on earth could anyone live here?”

“Ah, but it’s not on the earth we are looking for,” Julian said, “but below it.”

Then he went to a rock outcropping and began to draw a complicated sign with his hands and a sigil appeared on the rock. A doorway suddenly grew out of the stone and Julian looked back at her, “Come on,” he said, “There’s someone I can’t wait to introduce you to.”

“If you kill me here,” Renfri said, “then I will come back just to haunt you.”

Still, she followed Julian into the tunnel and found herself in a network of dirt halls. Julian must have known this place well because he moved through them seamlessly, through twists and turns before they paused outside on an arch. Small yellow lights floated near the ceiling, giving off a warm glow. 

“Ah, yes I can hear them inside,” Julian said, “Now no sudden movement, I didn’t exactly send word I’d be coming by.”

Then he walked into the next room, arms spread wide as Renfri stood behind him, “Hello old friends,” he said, a smile on his face.

A sword was immediately thrown at him and Julian ducked, still smiling. Renfri looked around the room. It seemed to be some sort of council. There were around seven people around a table covered in papers and charts. The man who had thrown the sword was wearing layered clothes and had long blonde hair. He looked angry when they had first entered the room but once he saw Julian his posture relaxed. Renfri looked at his ears and had to stop herself from gasping in shock. He was an elf. In fact, she corrected herself, looking around everyone in the room, they were all elves. 

“Julian!” the man said and moved around the table to wrap his arms around Julian, “what has it been now, five, seven years?”

Julian smiled sheepishly and said, “Well, I couldn’t exactly get away much or risk leading people here, lovely welcome by the way.”

“It’s not as if I knew you would be here.”

Then the elf turned towards Renfri and she had to hide the sudden urge to duck behind Julian, she was seventeen for crying out loud and instead stood up tall and looked him in the eye.

“And is this the Princess I’ve heard so much about?” He asked.

Julian nodded, “This is Princess Renfri, and this over-enthusiastic swordsman, Renfri, is Filavandrel aén Fidháil, King of the Elves.”

Renfri felt her breath catch in her throat. Of course, Julian had told her some stories about his time with the elves and logically knew that he was close to the King, but she could never have imagined meeting him, or that he was still alive. Most people assumed the elves were dead. 

She bowed at the waist, “Honored to meet you,” she said. 

The king laughed, “I haven’t had a human bow to me in decades. It’s a welcome change, I see why Julian took you in.”

Julian turned towards the king and said, “As much as I would like this to be a social visit we both know that it isn’t.”

The king sighed and turned towards his men, waving them off. “I imagined so, follow me to my chambers, I’m sure you are familiar enough with them.”

Before Renfri could begin unpacking that statement Julian and the king began walking out of the room. Renfri followed, listening aptly as they caught each other up on the past few years. Apparently they were much closer friends that she had originally thought. They talked as if years hadn’t passed since they had last seen each other. They entered a small area off the main hallway and Renfri found herself in a large yet modest set of rooms. 

The king relaxed once they were alone and sprawled out on the couch in the sitting area.

“Sit wherever you like,” he said. Renfri took a comfortable armchair and watched in fascination as Julian sat on the same couch as the King and put his feet up onto the elf’s legs. 

“I need you to cast a tracking spell for me,” Julian said. 

“Whoever for?”

“A mage.”

“Ah, still trying to kill Stregobor then?”

Julian gave a wry smile, “Don’t you know it.”

“There’s not exactly much reason to use chaos down here except for maintenance purposes so I have plenty to spare, even a difficult spell like this is well within my current reach.”

The king looked over to Renfri, “Could you please grab me that map on the table over there?”

Renfri nodded and got up to fetch the map. It was a simple thing, just distance markers, and names of towns. She handed it to the King who sat up just a bit and set the map down on Julian’s legs. Then, clearly expecting the King was about to perform magic, moved to the other side of the room so she didn’t ruin the spell. However, the King seemed completely unbothered by her presence, as if she didn't affect the spell at all. Odd, but she wouldn't complain. Perhaps elven magic was more powerful and could resist the Curse of the Black Sun.

He began chanting in elder and slowly moved his arms over the map, at one point he gestured at Julian who obligingly handed over a scrap of cloth to the King. It was a dark blue and Renfri recognized it as part of Stregobor’s cloak. 

“While we are waiting,” Julian said, “why don’t you go wash up Renfri, the washroom is right off to the left, I’ll go once you are done.”

She sighed in relief, glad to have a proper bath for once and headed into the other room while the King continued casting the spell. The room was gorgeous. The lights here were a light blue and there seemed to be a pool of water set into the ground with a light underground current running through it. She was worried the water would be cold but found that it was just the right temperature. Renfri sank into the water with a sigh and then looked at the different soaps on the edges of the pool. This was officially Renfri’s new favorite friend of Julian. 

Gods, Deidre would love to see this. She was very interested in exploring magic and honestly if not for her inability to cast Renfri could see Deidre as a mage in her own right. She looked at the blue water and blushed as she thought of just how much Deidre might enjoy these baths. 

She brushed through her hair in the water and dried off. Renfri was sure she hadn’t been this clean in months. She looked at the pile of dirty armor on the floor and dreaded getting back into it. 

“Julian!” She cried out, “Do we need armor right now?”

“Probably not!” he shouted back.

“Toss me my pack then!”

Her brown pack was thrown into the bathroom and she caught it. She rummaged through until she found a simple set of black breeches with a red shirt and was beyond happy to finally be washed and cleaned. In the main room, the king was still gently chanting and as she left, Julian walked into the washroom carrying his own pack. Renfri stayed away from the King so again so her aura didn’t dispel the magic and found herself looking at the books on the wall. 

There was a blue book titled  _ A Journeyman’s Tale _ that looked interesting so she settled down to read for a minute. It looked like a simple fictional story but was still interesting nonetheless. It was about a young elf who had to fulfill a quest to gain his father’s inheritance. She was only about a chapter in when a blue light lit up the map, making it unreadable for a moment before dying down, leaving the same map in its place. 

Renfri stood up and walked over, “What happened?” She asked. The casting appeared to be done so her aura wouldn’t affect the map now. 

“Filavandrel here cast a tracking spell based on Stregobor’s signature,” Julian said. His hair was still wet from the shower but it was pulled into a high ponytail and he was wearing a soft-looking white shirt with blue pants. For once, Julian had actually shaved and Renfri was shocked at how much younger it made him look. In fact, no one would likely buy the father-daughter story now. At most, Julian looked ten years her senior now. It was one thing logically to know Witchers didn’t age and another to see the evidence so plainly. He pointed onto the map where a large black triangle was with the name Stregobor underneath. It was in Vengerberg.

“That’s where the bastard is,” Julian said. 

The king looked up and smiled at Julian, “Ah, I see you cleaned up nicely.”

“Only the best for you darling,” Julian teased. 

The king laughed as Julian continued, “I cannot thank you enough for this Filavandrel.”

The King looked a little more tired than before but smiled nonetheless, “Anything to get you to visit me,” he joked, “Although I hope it’s not too often, you always seem to attract trouble.”

“What can I say?” Julian said, “I am just special that way. I would love to stay and chat, but, well, you know me.”

The King sighed as he stood up, “Always the next adventure.”

As the group of three headed out back into the tunnels and Renfri assumed they were leaving but she couldn’t tell which way was which. Julian and the king continued talking and she began to listen to snippets of their conversation. 

“How’re the underground farms working out?” Julian asked.

“Better than expected but still low on production. I worry about our food stores in about a decade. It would just take one failed farm to send us rationing currently.”

“Any stockpiles?”

“We try, but there’s quite enough room down here to make enough grain that there is an excess in the first place.”

“As always, the offer is open to help if you need it.”

“And as I always reply, I will keep it in mind Julian, ah, here we are.”

The king reached a dead end and put his hand on the dirt before saying a word in Elder. A doorway appeared and Renfri had to blink back at the sudden brightness assaulting her eyes. 

Julian and Filavandrel exchanged a goodbye before Julian and Renfri got onto their horses and left. 

“We should be able to reach Vengerberg before Nightfall,” Julian said. Leading the horses at a gentle trot, “It’s only a few hours ride.”

“And once we are in the city?” Renfri asked.

“Well, I imagine that Stregobor is staying with the court mage of Aridea there so we will have to find them. He is on the Council of Mages you know.”

Renfri sighed, “Of course he is.”

“We will have to armor up once we reach the city gates.”

“And I had just gotten comfortable,” Renfric complained. 

Still, once they reached the city they got off their horses and both donned their armor. Julian once again looked completely anonymous in his mask and hood while Renfri preferred a light armor. It’s not as though she cared if people knew what she looked like. 

They stuck to the shadows of the city, finding their way to the palace by jumping across the rooftops. One of the first things Julian had taught her was that people rarely looked up. They had brought their packs along as they weren’t completely sure if they would be returning to the horses which slowed their pacing but it wasn’t about speed currently but rather stealth. 

The palace at Vengerberg was opulent and towered over the other small buildings in the city. That made it easy to breach. There were only a few lone guards on the walls and this close to sunset it made it easy to sneak by. It’s always easy to tell where a mage’s quarters are in a palace. There would almost always be an unearthly light or odd plant showing out of the windows. Julian pointed towards a balcony where purple lights seemed to be coming out of the room. He motioned and Renfri nodded, the two of them scaling the castle walls and climbing up towards it. 

They landed silently on the balcony together and put their hands on their swords yet did not draw it as the sword would alert the mage.

It looked to be a woman with black hair. She was bent over a book and although Renfri cast her eyes around the room, she saw no sign of Stregobor. Renfri drew her sword in frustration and all at once the woman turned around. Behind her, she saw Julian go to draw his sword but then he seemed unable to. For a moment he looked confused then his eyes widened in some understanding that she did not understand and he yelled, “Wait!”

On an instinct born from years of listening to Julian, Renfri stilled her blade. Julian walked over to the woman who was looking at them both now in worry, hands alright with purple magic. She was gorgeous, Renfri thought, with bright purple eyes and a beautiful face. This mage was everything most mages wished to be. 

Once Julian stood in front of the woman, he put out his hands in surrender and said, “We aren’t here to harm you.”

Renfri thought this had to be a lie but still, sheathed her blade in silent agreement and the woman looked suspicious.

“Yes, nothing says I mean you no harm like breaking into someone’s quarters in a mask.”

“We are looking for someone,” Julia said.

“I know who you are looking for, but you won’t find him here.”

“Fuck,” Julian said as he pulled out the map. Renfri looked over his shoulder and now the Stregobor mark was in Toussaint. 

Now she was mad, Stregobor did not have enough magic to portal so he must have asked this woman to help. Renfri drew her sword once more and held it at the woman’s throat, “What have you done,” she said.

“Stop!” Julian cried, stepping in front of Renfri’s sword, “you can’t harm her.”

“Why on the continent not,” Renfri asked, “Do you know her?”

“No,” said the mage at the same time as Julian said, “Not exactly.”

The woman turned her head to look at Julian in confusion, “Now you seem to have me at a distinct disadvantage, you know of me but I know neither of you. If it helps, there’s no love lost between Stregbor and myself though he may be considered my superior.”

Julian turned and ran his hand down his face. The effect was a bit ruined by the hood and the mask but the emotion was still there, “I might not know your name, but I knew your father. He saved my life once and now I am indebted to save yours.”

The woman snarled, “My father was a worthless drunk and the best thing he ever did was sell me for four marks.”

“Not him, your birth father.”

She stilled and Renfri almost felt bad for the woman. Clearly, she was trying to keep her composure but the mention of her birth father had shaken her.

“I don’t have any wish to hear about a man who died before I was ever born.”

“Look, uh-”

“Yennefer.”

“Yennefer,” Julian continued, “I will not harm you as I promised myself once hearing of your father’s passing but we need to find Stregobor. He’s mad with power and his obsession with the black sun puts many lives at risk. The lives of girls across the continent. I’m sure you heard what happened in Novigrad.”

She looked over at the two of them once more and her eyes widened, “Oh lords, you are the Nightingale and the Shrike.”

Renfri smiled, trying to look as menacing as possible, “You bet we are, and while my good friend here can’t hurt I have no such problems. And I will incapacitate him if that’s what it takes to find out where Stregobor is.”

Yennefer held up her hands in supplication, “As I said before there’s no love lost. I am perfectly happy at my place here in Aedirn. No need for violence. You want to find the man, see if I care, I will even open up the same portal I used for him.”

Renfri narrowed her eyes, “What’s the catch?”

“Don’t come back.”

“That’s all?” Julian asked incredulously. 

“What can I say,” Yennefer said with a dark smile, “I’m a simple woman with simple needs.”

Then she waved her hand and a glowing blue portal wavered in front of them. 

“I’ll go first,” Julian said, “and let you know if there’s anything amiss.”

He stepped through without hesitation which Renfri found particularly stupid, for all he knew, Yennefer could have opened a portal halfway to the Dragon Mountains and he wouldn’t have known. However, in this instance his faith seemed to be well-placed since a few moments later he popped his head back in and told Renfri it was all clear. 

She looked back at Yennefer one last time before going through. Renfri turned around to see Julian say, “A court mage, you know, your father would be proud.”

Renfri saw Yennefer’s face twist into fury for a moment before her hands turned and the portal was closed. 

The two of them found themselves in an old and crumbling house. It looked as though it had been abandoned for decades. There was old and shattered alchemy equipment littered throughout what must have been a workshop. They looked around but Stregobor had traveled here hours ago. Whatever he had been looking for, it was long gone. 

They found a piece of paper with some notes that were difficult to read but Renfri could make out a name on them,  _ Tomas Moreau _ .

When Julian saw them, his mouth pressed into a thin line, “Moreau,” he said, “I knew a Witcher by the name of Jerome Moreau, I wonder if there’s a connection.”

The house offered no further clues as to why Stregobor traveled here so Julian brought out the map and sighed in relief. It appeared that Stregobor was just outside of the small town they had found themselves in, on Mount Gorgon. Likely, he was camping out there while he waited for his magic to return. 

“If we go now we might be able to catch him before he’s strong enough to portal,” Julian said. 

“Agreed,” Renfri said and they headed out of the ruined house and towards the small triangle on the map. Normally, they tried to talk while they were traveling but this time they walked in silence. There was an energy in the air and while Renfri had never exactly called herself prophetic she did sometimes have premonitions and instincts that were more accurate than can be normal. Somehow, she just knew that everything was about to change. 

Stregobor was easy enough to find. He sat on top of a cliff looking out over the mountainside. They both drew their swords and approached from behind. 

“Good of you both to join me,” Stregobor said, “This certainly makes the entire endeavor easier.”

He stood up and brushed some imaginary dirt off his robes. In one hand he held a set of papers, old and dirtied. 

Renfri saw the gleam in his eyes and once more tried to rush him before he could cast a spell. 

He waved his hand and thick roots sprung from the rocky ground, capturing her in its grip. She struggled but her sword fell loosely from her grip and she cried out in frustration.

“Not yet dear,” he said, “I need to take care of this little Witcher pest here first.”

Julian brought up his sword and lowered his mask and hood once again. He wanted Stregobor to look upon the face of the Witcher that had spent decades hunting him. She saw the determination in his eyes. 

Still, Julian was close enough to her that he wasn’t able to cast any spells so he simply lunged for the mage, breaking into a run. Stregobor laughed and brought up both his hands, raising them high into the sky. 

Just before the Witcher reached him, lightning crashed down right where Julian was. There was an explosion of light and Renfri heard herself cry out, although she couldn’t hear anything at all and she couldn’t feel anything, not over the sound of her heartbreaking, and then the light died down and Julian was gone, gone gone. She thought she had seen his body go flying over the cliff, caught in the strike. 

Just like that. No real battle, no real fight. He was gone and Renfri was left alone with Stregobor laughing wildly over the wind that had begun to pick up. It was raining now, and thick droplets began pounding onto the rocky mountaintop. 

“One down, one to go!” the mage cried and Renfri tried to break free but the roots were too strong. 

Then she reached into the magic surrounding them and snapped the hold chaos had over the roots and they fell to the ground limply. She stood up, shaking, crying. When Stregobor saw her he smiled.

“No matter how I wish I had the energy to kill you here and now and study that lovely body of yours, I simply don’t have time. I will be around,” he said and then on shaky legs he opened a portal and vanished. 

Renfri was left there alone, shivering in the cold wind and rain. Her legs were shaking. She looked over to where Julian had fallen from the cliff’’s edge and ran over there. There was no body and the drop looked steep.

Still, she grabbed onto the sharp rocks and began to climb down. She had to. Wounds on her hands opened once more and she almost fell for all the shaking that she was doing but she made it to the bottom of a ravine where Renfri searched along the ground relentlessly for Julian. 

She even tried calling his name but of course, none was forthcoming. There was a river crossing through the ravine and she wondered if perhaps his body had fallen in there. If Julian was drowning, alone, and she couldn’t save him. 

Damn it. Renfri fell to the ground and began sobbing. She couldn’t do this alone. There was an ache in her chest that she could feel it building into a physical pressure. It felt as though her chest would explode right there and then, letting all the horrible awful feeling inside her pour out. They would pour out into the river and float away and maybe when she was completely empty she wouldn’t be so alone. 

She couldn’t do this alone. She wasn’t Julian, she wasn’t strong or smart or capable enough. 

Then Renfri remembered Julian’s smile, his infectious energy and terrible jokes and how now he was none of these things. How he was a corpse floating somewhere in the river and how Stregobor had done this to her. 

She felt a resolve fill her chest. Renfri was going to kill Stregobor for what he had done or die trying. 

* * *

Renfri cradled a flagon of ale. There was plenty of sound in the tavern and she tried to lose herself in the ambiance but it was difficult. In the year since she had lost Julian, she thought of little else but what Stregobor had taken from her. She had sent word to Deidre but had yet to hear back, not surprising considering last she had heard the other Wolf Witchers were being...less than welcoming to her and Deidre had gone to the coast for a break, alone. Renfri had just sent a missive two days ago to the coast informing Deidre that she would be in Blaviken. She honestly didn't expect to hear back.

So, Renfri had gathered her own band of thieves and rogues. Some, like Nohorn, had been someone she and Julian had saved. Others had been followers of Lilit or prophecies of the Black Sun and had readily answered her call to arms. Once Stregobor had heard of this, he had gone into hiding. It was nigh impossible to find him, but eventually, she realized that he was hiding in Blaviken under the name Irion, had been for almost a year now. This entire time and the man had been in once place. Her fingers clench around her glass. Her premonition abilities had grown even stronger over the past year and she would just know where to be in order to meet the right person. Sometimes she even had prophetic dreams or visions. Now, there was a strong feeling like the calm before a storm that she knew meant something important was about to happen. 

Then the door opens and the cold air rushes in. She doesn’t even bother to look up, but whoever it is startled the musicians enough that they stop playing. 

Then she hears, “You don't give the orders around here you mutant son of a bitch.”

She looks up and there is a man wearing heavy armor and a cloak. His white hair is in complete disarray and around his neck is a medallion. A Witcher. A wolf witcher to be precise. She doesn’t want to get involved but once she hears her men continue to bait the man, she has to step in. If nothing else, because she imagines his control is getting particularly thin. 

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” She says. 

The innkeeper tries to interrupt, “Witchers can't be trusted.”

Renfri rolls her eyes as if this man had likely ever met a Witcher before today. “I'm not speaking to you. I apologize for my man's interference in your day. Hopefully, he can improve his behavior by tomorrow's market.”

Tomorrow was going to be a big day. She had gathered enough of her men that they had the numbers to storm Stregobor’s little tower tomorrow. Perhaps if she could get this Witcher on her side then their victory would be assured. She’s sure he would be interested in knowing that Stregobor hunted down Witchers in his spare time as well. 

Nohorn apologized but Renfri waved it off, instead choosing to order two beers for her and the Witcher. 

The man scoffed, “I’m full. Venison.”

Renfri sighed and drained her cup in one smooth motion, when she saw the Witcher’s curious look she gave him a rough smile, “I learned from the best of them. So, what brings you to Blaviken Wolf Witcher? You came for a monster?”

She hopes he didn’t come here to work for Stregobor, wouldn't that just be the worst news. 

He shrugged, “I was traveling by the swamp.”

Renfri remembered how much Julian hated swamps and would avoid them at any cost, “That would be your mistake then. Why wouldn’t you travel by main roads?”

“It’s hard to make a living on main roads,” he said.

So traditional, this Witcher, Renfri thought. She wonders if he knew Eskel. It would probably be in poor taste to ask considering Deidre’s last letter. 

Then she remembered that this could very well be one of the Witcher making Deidre uncomfortable, “And you desperately need money for new clothes. Two more beers.”

The innkeeper growled and simply set a pitcher of beer in front of her. She sighed, “More and more, I find monsters wherever I go.”

He merely grunted and then a young girl dragged him off. Renfri motioned for one of her men to follow them while she finished off her pitcher of beer. Fuck it had been a long year. 

When her man returned to inform her that the Witcher, Geralt she was told his name was. Damnnit. There could still be a chance he might help her. She met him in the woods outside of Blaviken where he was camped. 

Renfri tried to walk quietly but he clearly heard her so she gave up all pretense of stealth and said, “The girl this morning, she took you to see Stregobor, didn’t she?”

In lieu of offering up a response, Geralt said, “I know who you are.”

She doubted that but she humored him anyway, “You know that I want to kill Stregobor then. I used to be a princess. Did he tell you that? Until he sent a thug into the woods to kill me.”

“You killed him.”

She smiled at the memory, “With my mother’s brooch. I would have been raped if my father hadn’t saved me, and after that, I couldn’t go home. No more princess. I had to survive.”

“What?” Geralt said derisively, “Your father didn’t want you back at the castle after saving your life?”

“The man who saved me wasn’t my father by blood and we had to go into hiding,” Renfri said, “I killed rather than be killed. And Stregobor took him away from me. Lilit help me, I will take down anyone in my way.”

She paused, now was her chance to try and convince him, “Unless destiny intervenes.”

He recoiled slightly, “You want me to kill Stregobor for you.”

Renfri remembered the cold hike down from Mount Gorgon, holding a burial with no body. Taking the time to inform Julian’s vast network of his demise, “It’s the lesser evil.” She said at last

“So I keep getting told.”

Now she was getting angry, why wasn’t he listening? “Stregobor asked you to kill me too. ‘Cause I was a girl born during an eclipse? I could’ve become so many things. Queen Calanthe of Cintra, she just won her first battle at Hochebuz. But here I am trying to convince you I’m not-”

He cut her off, “A monster. Are you?”

“How am I to know? When I cut my finger, I bleed. That’s human, right? When I overeat, my stomach aches. When I’m happy, I laugh. When I’m upset, I swear. And when I hate someone for stealing my whole life from me, I kill him.”

The witcher grunted in reply.

“People call you a monster too.”

“A mutant,” Geralt corrected.

She scoffed, as if there was a difference half the time in the minds of most humans, “What if they come after you? Attack you?”

“They have,” he said frankly.

“Don’t you deserve revenge?” 

“Who taught you that?” Geralt asked, sharper than he likely intended.

“Perhaps I learned it myself,” Renfri said. 

“Your father, the Nightingale, there are many who think the continent is better off without him,” the Witcher said. 

Renfri tried to stay calm, “And are you one of those people?”

Geralt paused for a long moment, “I understand his pain,” he said at last, “I don’t know who he is but he is clearly a Witcher. Sometimes, the mutagens, we don’t turn out right. Sometimes we go mad.”

“My father was not mad!” Renfri shouted, unable to hold in her anger.

“Tell yourself whatever makes you feel better,” Geralt said, “but don’t follow him into demise. Leave Blaviken and finally live, free of the expectations of a dead man. You choose, Princess.”

He left then, leading his horse away from her, leaving her stranded at the river. Renfri looked down to see her fists shaking. What did this coward know of everything Stregobor had done to her? He didn’t even want to revenge another Witcher. Geralt had grown complacent and Renfri was sure he would suffer for his indifference. 

Later that day, she found him once more in the woods, talking to himself.

“You know what Vesemir would say? “Witcher shouldn’t play at being white knights. We shouldn’t try and uphold the law. We don’t show off. We get paid in coin.” And he’s right. Hm. Want to hear about my first monster? Wasn’t fifty miles outside of Kaer Morhen. He was huge. Stinking. Bald head. Rotten teeth. He pulled that girl from the cart, tore her dress off in front of her father and said, “It’s time you met a real man.” I told him it was time he met one too. It took two strikes to kill him. They weren’t clean. But they were spectacular. I turned to that girl afterwards. She was drenched in the man’s blood. She took one look at me, screamed, vomited, and passed out. Yeah. I thought the world needed me too.”

Renfri listened to this statement with interest. It was a shame this Witcher had his spirit so clearly beaten down. In another lifetime, Julian and him would have gotten along fantastically. For a moment, she was caught up in a vision. 

For some odd reason, it was Julian and Geralt together, by the sea. Julian’s hair was shorter than she had ever seen it and he was clean-shaven. His blue pants were rolled up to his knees and he was wearing a loose white shirt. He was rummaging around in the ocean. 

“Hey, Geralt!”

Renfri saw the other Witcher, wearing no armor but instead a matching set of blank pants and shirt turning towards the other, “What?”

“Look at those shells. They’re pearl oysters, aren’t they?”

“No.”

“Know anything about them?”

“No,” Geralt said again, and there was a kind of fond exasperation to his voice. He sounded happier and lighter, not weighed down by the hatred of man.

Julian laughed and shrugged his head, “So keep your opinions to yourself until you do know something. They are pearl oysters, I’m certain. I’ll start collecting pearls, at least there’ll be some profit from this expedition, not just a cold. Shall I begin, Geralt?”

Then as soon as the vision began, it was gone and Renfri was left gasping. There was no more warm sunlight on the sea or Julian and Geralt, alive and together. The world was grey and the woods were cold. And Geralt wasn’t with Julian but instead stopping her from taking her revenge. Still, some small part of her hoped that that vision had a meaning. All her visions did. Perhaps in another world, the two of them knew each other. Perhaps in another world, they helped to heal each other. But in this world, they had never met. In this world, Julian was dead.

She moved from behind a tree, “Who were you talking to?”

He looked up at her approach, “I talk to my horse.”

“That’s sad,” she said with a small laugh.

“Is it?”

She tried to push the vision out of her mind, to focus on the present. Julian was dead, “Tell me, Witcher. You don’t believe in destiny or the lesser evil. What do you believe in?”

“You mean, who do I believe? I don’t pick sides.”

His complete apathy brought anger rising in her chest. This wasn’t about picking sides like children playing a game. This was about lives being stolen, taken. Did this man know about Novigrad? About Deidre? About the girls, Stregobor chased across the continent killing and dissecting?

“There will come a time when you have to make a choice,” she said, “I pray you to make the right one.”

With that, Renfri stormed off, she couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Somehow, having that strange vision of him and Julian made her even angrier. If he would simply break his veneer of passivity she was sure Geralt could be a great man. She just knew it. She hoped it wouldn’t be too late. That night, she found herself having a prophetic dream. 

She heard herself speaking as if from a great distance, “You’re in the market. Covered in blood. You say you can’t choose, but you had to. And you’ll never know if you were right. Geralt… Your reward will be a stoning. And you will run. You will try to outrun the girl in the woods, but you cannot. She is your destiny.”

When she woke up, Renfri knew what she had to do. She rallied her men at once and began to march towards Stregobor’s tower. She ordered her men to lock down the perimeter while she took care of him. However, there was one small issue. When she tried to breach the gates, there were powerful wards keeping her out. She tried to bang her fists on the door but a blue tone of magic kept her away. 

Renfri was furious. How had Stregobor managed to find the magic that could contain her? She would have to draw him out. Then, she heard sounds of fighting from the town square and cursed under her breath. Geralt had arrived, and clearly, he had not chosen to help her. 

She looked around for anything to bargain with and then saw a young girl standing near the gates. Quickly, she grabbed her, holding a sword up to her throat and dragged her into the square where Geralt was standing, the bodies of her men surrounding him. 

“You chose,” she said to Geralt. Renfri’s hands were shaking and she hoped he couldn’t see her resolve wavering. 

“Let the girl go,” he said, calm, steady. 

“I will kill her,” Renfri said, her voice going up at the end, “I will kill everyone here until Stregobor comes down.”

Geralt didn’t move, “Leave Blaviken. It’s not too late.”

She sees Geralt forming a sign with his hand and laughs, “Magic doesn’t work on me. Silver does though.”

“Silver is for monsters,” he says at last and Renfri tosses the girl aside and advances on Geralt. He has to see, he has to understand, what can’t he understand?

“I won’t be able to stop,” she says, almost feeling strangely excited. She thrusts and he ducks to the left before swinging back around himself. Renfri catches his blade and their dance begins. 

Geralt is a good swordsman, better than Julian is if Renfri is being honest. However, she’s beat Julian plenty of times and while Geralt is good, he’s not leagues above Julian and she’s able to keep up with him. Does he recognize her style? Renfri wonders as their blades clash. Can he see the teachings of a Witcher reflected in her blows? Does he feel their connection?

She is lost in the memories and is caught off guard when Geralt pushes her against the wall, sword at her throat.

“They created me just as they created you,” Renfri says, the trials, the assassins. Both of them have been shaped by forces outside of their control. Stregobor is the opportunity to take control back, why can’t Geralt see that? “We’re not so different.”

She sees his eyes harden and knows there’s no getting through to him. This is a fight, not a discussion. She stabs him in the gut with her knife and he backs off, giving her room once more. Where before, Geralt seemed to be avoiding her more than attacking he is now well and truly pissed. He is on the offensive now and with both of them fighting at full capacity Renfri knows they can’t keep this up forever. 

Geralt catches her sword on his own behind his back and they look at each other, breathing heavily. He swings his sword around and brings it down on her left shoulder. The pain is agony but she merely glares at Geralt before striking him quickly in the left thigh. 

Damnnit, she has to get her head together. Think, Renfri, think. Geralt, like most Witchers, is likely having to actively concentrate to not use signs. She knows that troubled Julian when they were training. She strikes, harder and faster than before, trying to think of a way to get him to instinctively try and use a sign. 

Then she smiles. There’s a training move to learn to use Aard against a sword that had won her the first match against Julian. Geralt hadn’t likely ever unlearned the training. Renfri swung her sword so it was swinging towards Geralt from his non-dominant side. Most Witcher trainees learn that it is easier to simply move your hand and push the sword away then to swing your body around and catch it with your own sword. 

Geralt had clearly learned the same because he moved his hand into the Aard position before realizing that nothing was happening. His mistake. He tried to correct his mistake but Renfri had already struck him in the side, hard. He fell to the ground, clutching his side, the sword having fallen to the ground. 

But she was still in the heat of battle, for a moment she thought about sparring Geralt but then with a cry she swung her dagger towards him. However, she underestimated the Witcher’s strength and he turned her hand away causing her to impale the dagger into her own chest. For a moment, Renfri couldn’t believe what happened, then she fell to the ground besides Geralt. 

Although Geralt was holding onto his bleeding side with one hand, he used the other to cradle Renfri’s body. 

As she lay there, gasping for breath she looked up into golden cat-eyes. Those eyes were so familiar to her, she felt tears welling up in her eyes, “I am coming Julian,” she said, “I’m coming.”

Then she felt darkness creeping up on her and she should be scared but all Renfri could think about was being with Julian again, being with him once more, even if in death. Then a feeling overcame her. She had to say it. A prophecy. With her last breath she said in one quick sentence, “The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny.” 

Then the darkness overcame her and Renfri, Princess of Creyden, The Shrike, knew nothing more.

* * *

When the Witcher leaves, bleeding and bruised, branded a monster by the very people he tried to protect, there is no one left to guard the body of the Shrike. The Witcher clutches the brooch tightly, the words of a dying girl floating through his mind. The townsfolk leave, following the Witcher with taunts and jeers and stones. Stregobor leaves to fetch a cart. The square is empty save for dead bodies. 

Then, a young woman, short yellow-blond hair and brown armor over a white shirt walks into the square. When she sees the body she drops to the ground and gathers it in her arms. It is still warm, not yet cold and she weeps, uncaring of the blood from the street soaking into her clothes. 

“I wasn’t quick enough,” she says, “I’m so sorry darling, I should have been faster. I should have been here. I can’t forgive myself.”

She can’t stand to look at Renfri’s open eyes so she closes them and brushes the hair off her forehead, “I’m so sorry,” she says, “I love you, I love you. Please don’t be gone.”

Then she hears the tell-tale sign of a cart rambling down the street and in a feat of strength most would not have expected the blond-haired girl lifts up Renfri’s body and carries it out of Blaviken. 

When Stregobor arrives to see an empty square he lets out a cry of rage. He tries to console himself by remembering that not all is lost. 

That night, the mage walks into the depths of Irion’s stolen tower, to a small stone cell where a man is shackled to the wall, arms held at a painful angle behind him. He’s wearing little more than rags at this point and is covered in grime. He is filthy, unwashed, hair overgrown and skin a sickly pale color. But when he looks up at Stregobor his golden eyes are glowing with a promise of retribution. 

“Finally,” Stregobor says, looking down at his prisoner, “It’s just you and me, Nightingale.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I am very surprised that I was able to get this chapter out this week. This was a hard chapter to write for me for a number of reasons. First, we are saying goodbye to Renfri and also we are finally beginning to catch up to the canon years. From now on, expect more Geralt content, although, to tell the truth, the next chapter is very Julian-heavy. Fun times with Stregobor ahead. 
> 
> Again, didn't expect to have Deidre and Renfri fall in love but hey, what are you gonna do. 
> 
> Also some narrative notes for this chapter: I mentally was writing this like a season finale. This really is the end of a major character arc for Julian in a lot of ways so I thought first it would be interesting to have it told from Renfri's POV since she doesn't really know the complex relationships Julian has with Mael and Filavandrel. Also, I tried to bring plenty of callbacks such as Filavandrel and Yennefer. And, as all good shows do, there's a little cliffhanger at the end for the next season. 
> 
> And who knows? We might just see Renfri again.
> 
> Also, the vision Renfri had? one of my fav scenes from Sword of Destiny. I WANT THEM AT THE SEA


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian lets go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: some suicidal ideation and minor gore

Julian could hardly move. He lay on his side, curled into a ball, shaking. He wasn’t chained to the wall anymore. He was too weak to move most days and Stregobor could hardly be bothered. In fact, nowadays Julian could barely bring himself to eat and Stregobor would inject him with fluids to keep him alive. 

In the first year of his capture, Julian had tried every possible way to escape. He had broken his thumbs to escape the chains but had been found out by the wards Stregobor installed in his tower and summarily thrown back into the dungeon. All it had resulted in was the shackles being even tighter, more painful. Julian couldn’t move his hand enough to form a single sign. His wrists were rubbed raw most days. Then, when he tried to attack the guards who brought him food Stregobor had chained him to the wall, giving him little range of motion. 

His muscles atrophied and he began to have tremors forming in his arms from the way they were held behind him. For most of that first year, Julian didn’t see Stregobor. Once or twice the mage would come by his cell, chatting about clients he had seen or who he had talked to in the Brotherhood but those occasions were few and far between. For the most part, Julian was left to rot. This terrified him. Stregobor was planning something, Julian knew it, and he wouldn’t stop fighting until he found out what. 

Unfortunately, the day he discovered Stregobor’s plan was the day his fight left him. 

He had been shackled to the wall when the man had walked in, a grim smile on his face. 

“Finally,” Stregobor had said, looking down at his prisoner, “Looks like it’s just you and me, Nightingale.”

Julian lifted up his head in confusion. What did he mean-NO, not that, anything but that. 

“Where is she?” Julian cried, seeing the double meaning behind Stregobor’s words.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?”

The mage laughed, circling around Julian, watching in sick amusement as he pulled at the chains with renewed frustration, straining his arms. 

“What did I do? Oh, Nightingale, I did nothing at all. In fact, it was one of your little Witcher friends who had the honor of finishing off the Princess.”

Julian shook his head, he couldn’t think of a single Witcher dishonorable enough, cruel enough to kill Renfri. Last he heard, she hadn’t harmed a single human. There was no reason for them to ally themselves with a mage to kill her. Perhaps it had been an assassination contract. He could see a Viper taking it. Still, even then, most Witchers knew better than to get involved with mages. Julian didn’t believe him and said as much but Stregobor simply shook his head. 

“If you don’t believe me, I suppose I will have to show you.” Then the mage put his hand on Julian’s head and suddenly he was within a memory. 

He was standing, there was a sword to his throat. Renfri stood behind him, holding that sword to his throat. A Witcher with white hair was in front of him. He looked familiar to Julian yet he couldn’t place him. He had a wolf medallion. 

Julian hears the other Witcher say, “Silver is for monsters,” then the memory holder is shoved away and Julian has to watch as Renfri fights for her life against this Witcher. 

He watches as she twirls and spins her way around the other Witcher. She has grown as a fighter in their year apart. She is shrewder, more calculated. He can’t help but be proud. Renfri even disarms the other Witcher but one small miscalculation and Julian has to watch as her own dagger is plunged into her chest. 

Julian wants to scream but this is not his memory and he is unable to escape and he can’t do anything to stop it. He watches as his girl, his little girl is lowered to the ground. With every beat of her heart blood gushes out and she is gasping, reaching for life that is leaving her body. 

He wants to hold her, to let her know how proud he is he wants to be there with her but he can’t. This isn’t really happening right now, Renfri is long gone and now he simply has to watch her die. 

The other Witcher is cradling her body and Julian wants to run him through right now. How dare he hold her? How dare he mock her with this facsimile of care? She is not his to hold and Julian feels a hatred beginning to grow in his chest. Still, he can’t look away from the pain in the other man’s eyes. There is something, a deep well of grief building up in the other man’s eyes that calms that fiery loathing. 

In her final moments Renfri calls out for Julian and he feels his heartbreak. She thinks he is dead, Julian realizes. She thinks he is dead and that she has gone to join him in death. He wishes more than anything that he was dead, that she was coming to meet him. It wasn’t fair for him to outlive Renfri. Honestly, Julian had lived plenty of life and would gladly trade his for hers at a moment’s notice. 

She calls out for Julian and then dies, gasping out a half-formed prophecy and he can’t stand it but he is physically incapable of looking away, of not watching. Stregobor has cursed him with this memory and he must watch it. 

Julian watches as Stregobor appears, as the other Witcher, Geralt, he hears, and does that name sound so familiar, as he protects Renfri’s body from the mage. And he hates, oh does he hate this man who took his daughter away from him but there is a respect there Julian realizes. There is a respect that this man took no pleasure in his actions and Julian hopes he suffers. He hopes that this Witcher, Geralt, carries Renfri’s death like a weight around his neck. Julian prays that wherever Geralt goes, he is haunted by what he has done and that he never finds a moment’s rest. He deserves pain. He can’t even find pity when Geralt is stoned by the villagers. Once the Witcher leaves, the memory ends. 

Julian comes back to himself to see Stregobor standing across from him, hand lowering from Julian’s forehead. 

“That memory was from a young girl named Marilka, a fantastic little helper if I do say so myself.”

“I will get out of here,” Julian said, voice hoarse and tears streaming down his face, “and I will kill you.”

“Oh that I have no doubt,” Stregobor said, “which is why I must incapacitate you. I have found myself with a problem recently. No matter what I throw at you Witchers, you always find a way back, like a dirty little cockroach. So, I must find a way to make you helpless.”

Julian smirked, “Whatever you throw at me, I will come back from.”

“Oh yes I know, a Witcher’s healing factor is such that even after long periods of time most damage will eventually heal itself. I suppose I could try blinding you, paralyzing you, amputating your limbs and leaving you here a limbless lump but there is still too high a risk that there would either be some spell or some powerful ally who could heal you or help you become a formidable foe once more. No, I must destroy you. Tear down everything that makes a Witcher.”

“And how do you suppose to do that?”

“Have you heard the name Tomas Moreau?”

Julian tilted his head, that was the name that was on the notes in Toussaint. He supposed he was likely related to Jerome. Perhaps Tomas was his father. The one he didn’t like to talk about, the reason Jerome was injured beyond repair that not even spells or rituals could heal. Tomas Moreau was a dangerous man. 

Stregobor noted his pause, “I see you know the name. Tomas Moreau spent most of his life in Toussaint trying desperately to cure the Witcher mutagens, he wanted nothing more than his human son to return to him. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful and left his son permanently crippled and his laboratory in Toussaint beyond repair. However, he did leave plenty of notes behind and I am quite interested in where he left off.”

Julian felt himself shaking. Oftentimes, Stregobor described himself as a man of science more so than even a mage. He knew the mage conducted dissections on bodies, fused together different creatures, and tried to study the intersection of alchemy and ritual magic. He was renowned for this skill and Julian was terrified of what Stregobor could do with the notes of an alchemist such as Tomas Moreau. 

“You are beginning to understand then,” Stregobor said as he looked into Julian’s face, “how lucky it is, to be selected to help me with this endeavor. Imagine how lucky it would be, to cure a Witcher.”

Stregobor motioned to the guards who hoisted Julian up and unchained him, he tried to move but was too weak to make much of an effort.

“Come along,” Stregobor said, “with that princess gone, we have all the time in the world.”

As he turned around he grabbed Julian’s chin and looked into his eyes, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that grimoire, I will be getting it back Nightingale.”

Julian was dragged along the dungeon, kicking and screaming, trying desperately to escape but unable to. His grief for Renfri felt like a wild monster in his chest, trying to eat him from the inside out. Combined with the new terror of what Stregobor was trying to do, Julian was at his breaking point. He tried to open his mouth, to say anything to Stregobor, but all he could do was scream and scream and scream. 

He tried to kill himself plenty of times in the next few years. It was the most helpful thing he could do in the situation. If Stregobor actually found a way to cure Witchers then the mages would have complete control over the continent. Even if very few mages seemed to know what Stregobor was doing here in Irion’s tower, there were enough that Julian knew a sect of the Brotherhood was still trying to vie for complete control of the continent. Killing himself would end Stregobor’s experiments and well, there was always the slim chance of finally ending this hell and continuing to oblivion. 

Unfortunately, Stregobor wouldn’t let him die. When he refused to eat, the mage would inject him with fluids. When he tried to slice his throat with the end of the shackles, they were removed. When Julian tried to break his skull open on the stone walls, Stregobor placed softening spells on the walls. He was so trapped in this dungeon he couldn’t even fucking die. But oh how he wanted to. 

Every day was literally torture. Stregobor would inject him with new cocktails of drugs, draw his blood, poke and prod at him until Julian could hardly move and would simply lie comatose on the table, praying for this nightmare to end. He would watch as Stregobor studied his body for different reactions, acting as though Julian were a corpse on a table, a slab of meat to look at. 

Stregobor would take notes, “Tapetum Lucidum, there is a reflective membrane coating behind the retina that allows vision in low-light conditions. Possible growth during the ‘trials’ a Witcher undergoes. Non-surgical. The body can cannibalize itself in times of famine to preserve the larger whole…”

Most of the time, Julian would try and block out what Stregobor was saying, he couldn’t stand to listen to this glorified anatomy lesson about his own fucking body. 

He remembered Jerome, how the man had a terrible limp in his left leg and scars zig-zagging across his entire torso. Julian had always wondered how Jerome had gained those injuries, why they hadn’t healed like with other Witchers. Now he realized. Jerome’s father had kept him trapped, just as Julian was now, experimenting on him. It was worse in many ways, Julian considered, to do this to your own son. However, Tomas Moreau had not been able to finish his research. He had been able to disrupt the Witcher healing factor but instead of curing his son it simply left him broken and injured. Now, Stregobor was trying to finish that work. 

Whatever Stregobor was trying from Moreau’s notes wasn’t working and he ended up in immense pain most nights, curled on his side, unable to move. It didn’t help that if Stregobor wasn’t injecting him with different chemicals and mutagens, he was mind-raping him, looking for the location of the grimoire. 

Julian was proud to say that he held out on the grimoire’s location. It was almost impossible to tell how much time had passed in the dungeons, among Stregobor’s failures but it could have been years by Julian’s estimate. 

When the mage went looking through his mind, he never focused on the facts and details but rather an overarching picture. Stregobor didn’t even know Julian’s name. The mage only ever referred to him as Nightingale or Witcher. He didn’t care about the memories of Julian in childhood or Julian with the Elves. Thank gods for that. Julian couldn’t bear it if he led Stregobor to Filavandrel’s hideout. 

Instead, Stregobor would send out a mental suggestion into his mind ‘ _grimoire’_ and try and get his memories to lead him there. Julian might not be fantastic at mind magics, but he knew enough to redirect Stregobor, grimoire would become ‘ _book_ ’ which would turn into a memory of Julian reading. Still, eventually, Stregobor was able to pry the location of the grimoire from his mind. 

Julian sighed in defeat. It was only a matter of time now before Stregobor found the grimoire and all the magic contained within it. With the knowledge of the Griffins on his side, Stregobor would rise to become the most powerful mage on the continent and there was nothing he could do to stop him. 

Then, one night, Stregobor came into his cell, furious.

“Where is it truly, Witcher,” the mage spat out. 

It took Julian’s addled mind a moment to catch up to what Stregobor said but when he realized it he smiled, “So it wasn’t there?”

“Yes.” Stregobor said curtly, “the catacombs had been disturbed. Someone took the grimoire. Somehow you warned someone of the danger and now they have absconded with it.”

Julian laughed, “I didn’t tell anyone fuck-all,” he said, “Perhaps you just aren’t as clever as you think you are.”

He would have said more but his body was suddenly racked with coughs and he had to double over to keep from vomiting. Julian wondered where the grimoire was. It must have been a mage who found it. There were not many others at Aretuza. However, who could it be that wouldn’t have reported it to the Brotherhood? Strange. They must be keeping it for their personal use or they don’t understand just how much power they hold. Julian only prays it found its way into the right hands. 

Stregobor’s face turned into a look of absolute rage and he pressed his hand against Julian’s head, recoiling in disgust when he sensed the truth in his words. 

Then the mage’s face turned into a nasty grin and he said, “I suppose we will have to postpone our little experiments for the night then. I have a grimoire to try searching for, still, it would be a shame to leave you without entertainment.”

Stregobor waved his hand and then Renfri stood in front of him, looking as alive as the day he left her. Logically, Julian knew this was an illusion but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, trying to touch her, to hold her. She began walking towards him but just as she reached him, a dagger embedded itself in her chest. 

Blood began pouring out and she slumped to the floor. She didn’t die. Renfri kept crawling towards him, calling his name.

“Julian,” she said, her voice still soft despite the gaping wound in her chest, “Julian why did you leave me? Why did you let me die?”

The blood from her chest was growing in size now and Julians felt the hotness of it touching his legs. He recoiled but there was nowhere to go. Renfri kept staring at him, blaming him, bleeding. She was close to him but kept her distance enough that he couldn’t hold her. 

He started shaking. 

“Julian, why aren’t you with me?” Renfri’s illusion said and Julian heard Stregobor leave the cell, saying, “Have a nice night,” as the door changed shut. 

Julian looked upon the visage of his dead daughter and began screaming. He kept screaming because it was the only sound louder than sobbing. 

He had no idea how much time had passed between Stregobor’s last visit and the illusion disappearing. There was no light in the dungeon, no way to tell how much time had passed. Julian rarely ate so there were no evenly spaced meals. But at some point, perhaps when Stregobor grew tired or his magic exhausted, Renfri vanished. The blood on the floor and the smell of rot permeating the air vanished as well and Julian was left wondering what was possibly real anymore. Stregobor’s power lied in his ability to create the most life-like illusions and now Julian was terrified of opening his eyes. Who knows what terrifying creation Stregobor would come up with next. 

The mage appeared again at the door of the cell and this time there was not a single guard with him. He simply waved his hand and Julian was pushed to his feet by an invisible force and Julian couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

Over time, he remembered Geralt. That boy he had met at Kaer Morhen, before the keep was destroyed. They had been so young, so innocent. Julian laughed, what monsters they had become. No matter how he told the story, Julian was a killer. He was sure that some of the mages he murdered weren’t the monsters he portrayed them to be. He was sure that many of them were indoctrinated. Still, he killed them indiscriminately. Worst of all, Julian had taught Renfri to kill as well. He had taken a young, traumatized girl and molded her into a weapon. No wonder she had died with a dagger in her chest. It was what he had taught her. Julian was disgusted with himself. 

How could he be allowed to live, when he had committed so many crimes and ruined so many lives yet Renfri was gone. She had been cursed from the moment she was born and her death, just like her life, was a tragedy. It wasn’t fair. Julian railed against the cruelty of it all. He would offer up his soul in trade for hers but of course, no one ever answered. 

What pushed Renfri to attack Geralt? Why had she been fighting him in the square? How could the other Witcher justify killing her? There was so much Julian did not know and he had a difficult time reconciling the boy he had briefly met with the man he had seen in the memory. He remembered Geralt as an obnoxious shit who wouldn’t leave him alone for but a moment so he could research. He remembered the exhilaration of boys comparing their first scars. Julina remembered thinking he could see Geralt waving from Kaer Morhen as he left. 

He had not thought of him for years. Honestly, he had assumed he had perished in the destruction of the keep. Now, Julian sees him again and Geralt is a man now, cold and ruthless and he is killing his daughter. What pushes us, Julian thinks, to become killers. How can we live with ourselves never knowing if we made the right choice? Again, Julian hopes that Geralt suffers. He hopes that Geralt knows pain and isolation but he also now hopes for absolution. 

If Julian ever escaped and met Geralt once more, he might just run the man through with his sword. But afterward, perhaps, he might just help him back up. 

The experiments continued. At a certain point, he became used to the monotony. He stopped speaking, stopped eating. Stregobor stopped taking Julian back to his cell, instead just leaving him in the laboratory, confident that his wards would keep Julian contained. The wards Streogbor had kept any Witchers trapped inside and it was attuned specifically to Julian’s magical signature. 

Another few months, or perhaps even years passed this way with Julian in a dissociative state, hardly feeling. Even when Stregobor would summon Renfri’s illusions, covered in blood, telling him she missed him, it would barely get a reaction anymore. He was broken. 

Then one day, Stregobor came into the lab with excitement in his tone. He spoke to Julian and instead of blocking out the words as he once did. He let them flow over him.

“I know where Moreau was incomplete. Of course, the man was a brilliant alchemist. He discovered that the thyroid gland was producing different hormones that created different aspects of a Witcher. The closer metabolism and heartbeat, the acceleration of metabolizing toxins. However, he was never able to figure out a way to deal with the physiological changes. The Increased lung capacity, the eyes, the skeletal muscular system. None of these could have changed my hormones alone. I believed the answer lay in some type of brain function, perhaps at the smallest level or perhaps an unknown organ creating a new growth hormone. I thought there was simply something Moreau missed.

I never considered he could never think like a mage. You see, if I create a transmutation ritual that would reverse the physiological process and give you the body of a human it would not be enough. Eventually, the hormones would reverse the ritual and send you back to your mutated state. However, if I were to repress the hormonal changes caused by being a witcher through alchemic means and then conduct the transmutation ritual then finally you would remain human.”

Julian hadn’t moved once, but Stregobor stepped closer still and looked down at him lying on the metal table, “Do you know what this means, _Witcher_? This means I found a cure.”

At once, Stregobor began making preparations. He waved his hand and chanted in elder and chains sprang up around Julian, trapping him onto the table. Not that he would have run even if he had the chance, and Stregobor began drawing a ritual circle on the ground. 

Julian felt himself being lowered on the ground in the middle of the circle and then Stregobor began to chant. I was low at first but then a few minutes in he put a metal tube into Julian’s vein and he felt a potion flowing into his body. It was like a twisted version of the trials in a way and Julian somehow knew, although every other avenue had failed, that this would work. 

Then the pain began. His skin felt both too cold and too hot and at multiple moments he thought it was melting right off his skin, no Julian felt Stregobor peeling off his skin. Peeling, peeling, leaving his muscles exposed underneath. He felt as though his body was trying to detach itself from his soul, that it was trying to leave him behind. 

It was worse than the trials, this wasn’t happening in a slow build-up but rather all at once. His very existence, being shaped and changed in a moment’s notice. Who was he? What was he? There was a burning in his eyes and Julian had to close them. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t think. 

His entire world was one of pain and he couldn’t imagine a more horrific resistance. Why couldn’t he be granted the mercy of death, why was he still here? He felt his teeth being pushed out of his skull and new bones growing in their places. The white fangs made soft plinking noises as they landed on the ground. 

Julian felt his muscles stretching, changing, his bones becoming less dense, his very organs shifting around in his body. Then his breath became shallow as his breathing began to grow sharp. His heartbeat began to speed up, pumping so fast he thought it would leap out of his chest. He didn’t remember what life was like before the trails very well but surely his heart never moved this quick, this rapidly. How could anyone live like this? 

The chanting reached a crescendo and Julian could no longer scream, simply arching his body in agony as the ritual finished. Then all at once, the magic left and Julian was thrown sharply into the stone ground, panting. 

He was afraid to open his eyes but did so gradually. It was hard to see. Everything seemed out of focus, duller, he couldn’t hear what was happening around him. He tried to lift his body but his arms were shaky. 

Stregobor began to turn towards him and Julian lay still on the ground, eyes tightly closed. 

The mage spoke, and it sounded as if it was from a long distance away, “It worked,” he said, “it actually worked.”

Stregobor sounded exhausted, tired beyond belief and Julian was happy to know that this ritual had clearly exhausted him. 

Then he heard the sound of footsteps and the door opening. Stregobor had left. Unusual. He was likely either confused from the ritual magics or so tired he couldn’t stay upright. Gods knows Julian felt the same way. 

However, now that the bastard was gone, Julian tried to sit up again, pushing past the pain. He opened his eyes and tried to categorize the duller world he found himself in. He moved his limbs experimentally and he simply felt different. The way his body moved was lighter, his heart was beating so fast Julian had to tell himself he wasn’t on the verge of death and he couldn’t breathe as deeply as before. 

He tried to focus on the moment, to bring himself out of the foggy state he had been in for who knows how long. There was now a big problem. Stregobor had found a working cure. He didn’t have the grimoire yet but he would soon. Somehow, Julian would have to stop him. He got to his feet and tried to ignore the shakiness in his legs. He was still able to walk, to move. Julian would likely be completely unable to hold a sword in this state but he wasn’t helpless. He could do this. 

Julian had a goal now, and with a goal, he could push down the pain, the hurt, and try and desperately stay here. He couldn’t let himself leave again. He just had to remain here for a while longer. He was sure it would be much easier to kill himself as a human. Thank gods for small miracles. 

First, to get rid of the research. There were small fires, working with the tubes and beakers filled with chemicals and blood. He looked around for anything that could destroy this laboratory. Ah, there, in a sealed dry container. Quicklime. It would react explosively once it came in contact with water. Julian pulled a bucket of water in the center of the room. He moved slowly but surely, not trying to be quick but rather precise. Julian didn’t have much strength to spare. 

He went over to the door and was surprised when it opened. Oh right, the wards were set for Witchers. He...wasn’t a Witcher anymore. He grit his teeth. Not now, not now. He opened the door and then turned around. The container of quicklime sailed through the air towards the water and Julian started running. He wasn’t fast but since he shut the door behind him he was not incapacitated by the fire. 

The dungeon was unfamiliar to him. Julian had no idea how to escape. He had to go up, up would lead to the ground floor and he could find his way out from there. Hopefully. 

The explosion had likely drawn attention to his little escape which he doubted Stregobor would have expected, tired as he was. Julian tried to remember how he had found the courtyard, in his first escape attempt but after so long, the details were fluttering away from him. 

He moved as fast as he was able, trying to get used to how his body moved differently, pointedly ignoring how even his teeth felt wrong in his mouth and instead tries to focus on getting the hell out of here and warning the others. 

Finally, Julian reached the courtyard he remembered from long ago. There was a giant illusory tree in the center and near its roots, the wardstone. A softly glowing blue rock that anchored all the wards Stregobor used to keep himself protected and hidden. 

There. Across the courtyard, Julian saw the exit. He stumbled towards it, exhausting catching up to him, hoping to make it just a few more feet. Then, out from behind a pillar Stregobor stepped. 

He looked exhausted. Sweat was dripping down his face and he didn’t even have time for the fancy affectations he preferred. 

“I should have known you would try and escape,” he said, leaning against the pillar.

Julian knew he was in no condition to fight, emaciated and weak as he was but neither was Stregobor. Still, he was intent on leaving so he tried to move past the mage but Stregobor blocked him. They moved to the ground in a pile of limbs, Stregobor too magically exhausted to conjure any magic and Julian too broken to even hold his own against a pitiful man like Stregobor.

They stumbled around the courtyard, the illusions never flickering despite the mage’s utter exhaustion. Julian saw Stregobor becoming stronger the longer they were in the courtyard and wondered why he shouldn’t be recovering this quickly. Fuck, if Stregobor regained enough magic for even one spell, he would be done for. 

Then his eyes caught on it. The Wardstone. It was powered by a store of Stregobor’s magic, he was drawing on it, taking back his own power he had infused into the stone previously. In a split second, Julian made a decision. He pushed Stregobor away, long enough to run for the wardstone. He held it high above his head and then threw it down onto the ground as hard as he could, ignoring Stregobor’s cries. 

The world exploded into white. 

Julian felt himself fly back and then he felt the magic curling around him. It was clawing at him, attacking him. Everything he was and the magic wanted it. It wanted to eat it, to become it. 

The magic clawed into his mind, ripping into all the memories Stregobor had left behind. He tried to avoid getting sucked into them but he couldn’t escape. 

...

_There was Coën, holding a sword, ready to spar, a playful smile on his face._

_..._

_Eskel, looking at Julian, “Well if you ever change your mind I’m sure you know where the keep is. It’s not just wolves either, the past few years we’ve had a Griffin staying with us, Coën.”_

_..._

_“I can feel it, you know. Chaos is breaking apart, not responding the way that it should. It feels...corrupted for lack of a better term. Mages are pushing the world out of balance and the world is pushing back.”_

_..._

_“Surrender,” Filavandrel said and Julian wished he was here now._

_“Never,” he heard his own voice say._

_..._

_Julian watched as Alucard’s finger deftly played the fretboard of the lute, his fingers moving easily from chord to chord. He began to softly sing and Julian leaned in. Finally, he turned his head and their eyes caught. Julian stared into his friend’s eyes as they glittered in the low light, this music their connection, their secret. Julian did not move, he did not want to._

_..._

_Julian watched as Alucard’s body shook with vomit almost leaking out of him, his body not even strong enough to fully convulse. He began to choke and his breathing became heavy. Finally, he stopped moving and their eyes caught. Julian stared into his friend’s eyes as the light slowly drained out of them, and though they did not close he could see them empty of all life. Julian could not move, he could not do anything at all._

_..._

_“I’m not leaving,” Renfri said twelve years old again, a child, “you will be my teacher.”_

_“And why on earth would you see me as a suitable teacher?”_

_“You saved me, you’ve saved people, I’ve heard about it.”_

_“I’ve also killed many more than I’ve saved.”_

_…_

Had he saved her, then? Julian asked himself as the magic tore through his mind, ripping away his memories and sending them into dust. If he had left her there would she have still found her way to Blaviken, into Geralt’s sword? Had Julian saved her or condemned her?

_…_

_“Hey little bird,” he said, leaning over to Renfri, “want a ride to the tavern.”_

_“Oh I think I’m much too old-“ She tried to protest but Julian just laughed and scooped her up onto his back._

_..._

_“Your daughter is an absolute sweetheart. You’ve done a fantastic job with her.”_

_…_

_“We will find him you know,” Julian said, trying to comfort Renfri._

_…_

_“One day, she will face an enemy that is stronger and faster than her. We all have or will. On that day, she will let her guard down for just a moment and she could end up hurt or dead, can you have that on your conscience?” Eskel’s eyes bored into Julian’s_

_…_

_He saw Renfri, illuminated by lightning as he disappeared on the mountaintop._

_…_

_He saw Renfri, bleeding out on the streets of Blaviken, calling his name._

_…_

_He saw everything that was Julian, the Nightingale Prince, the Slaughterer of Novigrad, the man who condemned Renfri, turn to ash. He watched helplessly as everything that he was disappeared in a flash of light._

_…_

_The Nightingale Prince was no more._

* * *

Hilda was of Blaviken. The people of Blaviken were hardy. You had to be, to live alongside one of the most powerful mages of the continent. six years prior, there had been quite a problem when the Shrike rode into town, but she had been taken care of. Her bewitching of their people had ended. 

Unfortunately, the man who came to do the job, the Butcher had been nearly as much of a monster as the Shrike herself. But the people of Blaviken were hardy, they had thrown him out with the support of their mage. Her own son had died at the hands of the Butcher. He was just a boy, hardly more than twenty years of age and the Butcher had cleaved him from navel to neck, uncaring. He was a monster. 

The past six years, they had been relatively safe. Irion kept them safe in his tower from afar and they were able to fix the wounds wrought upon then by the Butcher. Then, one day, Irion’s tower exploded. At least ten died and many more were wounded simply from the fault of being in the blast radius. There had been merchants coming into town that day and there was a great hubbub as one of them had died. It was a terrible tragedy. 

Hilda had been nearby, trying to trade for textiles when she saw the explosion. She ran towards it at once. As one of the healers in town, she had a duty to help who she could. The entire tower was destroyed, flaming pieces of rubble littering the ruined street. There were a fair number of passersby who had been struck with rocks and were lying on the ground, bleeding. 

She had gone and helped the first man she came across. He was greasy, grimy, wearing what looked like they might have been a shirt and breeches once but were now little more than rags. He was quite possibly a traveler or a transient but Hilda never cared about things such as wealth or status. He had a nasty cut on his head, likely caused by a rock and she could feel swelling underneath it. He needed help no or he wouldn’t survive the night. 

Quickly, Hilda grabbed a cart and moved the body onto it. She grabbed two other victims two, both with awful burns, and then the cart was full. Hefting the cart up, Hilda had plenty of strength for it, she began to pull the cart back to her house. 

Once there, she began to treat them. Surely if she had an apprentice it would have been an easier job but since her son’s passing, she couldn’t bear to take anyone else on. He had been a brave boy, wanting to help others. One day he had gone out into the woods to search for herbs and had come back with strange tales of a mage named Stregobor living in Irion’s tower who was deceiving the town. He claimed to want to serve a Princess of Creyden. Hilda was happy about her son’s ambition. 

Then she learned he had simply been bewitched by the Shrike. She rubbed her eyes. No time to dwell on that now. She had patients to take care of. 

The first two with burns were awake within hours. One was a farmer she recognized and the other a seamstress. Both promised her payment in the form of harvest and clothes. She tried to refuse, saying she had plenty but they insisted. Hilda would have a pleasant winter this year. 

Both would have their scars but would survive. However, the other man was yet to wake up. It had been days and still, he slept on. She had cut his hair, letting matted greasy clumps fall to the floor, and shaved his face so she could look at his injuries better. He had a sizable lump on the back of his head and Hilda tried everything she could to make the swelling go down and it was beginning to work. 

What floored her, however, was that once she cut his hair and changed his clothes, he reminded her poignantly of her son at first she had to catch her breath. The man was younger than she had first thought, looking near to her son’s age and they had similar colored hair and in the same clothes, although their faces were very different she could imagine her son in this man’s place. Hilda just imagined this man opening his eyes to find herself looking into her son’s hazel. A fantasy, sure, but one she was happy to indulge herself in. 

Over the next few days following the destruction of Irion’s tower she heard that the mage had left. He had some form of amnesia and couldn’t remember the past few years. Apparently he had searched through the wreckage for some clue of what exactly had caused the explosion but had found nothing. He was furious at his own failure to remember and apparently only had vague memories of working on a project. Hilda had found no specifics. 

Most villagers were wary of the mage now and were all too happy to see him go. He had protected them from the Butcher so they let him leave in peace but none were sad to see the back of him. Not after the destruction, he had caused. 

Hilda spent her days taking care of the mysterious man, hoping he would wake up. Then, about a week after the explosion she heard him groan and rushed to his side at once. He opened his eyes and she tried not to be disappointed as she met brilliant blue. 

* * *

He opened his eyes. He was wearing soft clothes and there was a woman hovering above him. She was older, with kind eyes, and was holding a cool cloth to his forehead. 

“Don’t worry, you are safe now,” she said. 

The man nodded, looking for anything else to say, “Uh, thank you.”

“What on earth were you doing near that explosion?” the woman asked. 

“I have no idea.”

“Well then what’s your name.”

The man paused, “I, uh, don’t actually know.”

The woman covered her mouth with her hands, “Oh no, I was afraid of this. You had a nasty bump on the head.”

“Shit.”

“I don’t know if there’s any way to recover.”

The man thought about this. He was in a strange place, he didn’t even know the name of the town. Although, if he thought about it he could recall what the continent looked like and various names of different towns. He could remember what the different herbs around him were and what types of cloth he was wearing. However, he couldn’t remember a single detail about himself. 

“Is there something I could call you?” the woman asked.

The man looked over at the table where he saw a small bundle of yellow flowers. Buttercups.

“Jaskier,” he said at last, “You can call me Jaskier.”

Then he sat up fully and stretched out his limbs. He felt a little shaky but had the strangest feeling this was the best he had felt in a while. He moved his arms around experimentally, trying to force some feeling back into them. Jaskier. He liked the sound of that name. It was a name fit for performing. It was a name for great things. 

“How can I possibly repay you?” he asked the woman. 

“Oh, no payment needed,” she said, “I’ve gotten plenty from my other patients. I'm just happy that you are up and walking about.”

“Again, I cannot thank you enough.”

There was an awkward pause. What did he do now? He couldn’t possibly impose on this woman any further. He had no idea where he could go, what he could do. For some reason, he found his eyes settling on a dusty lute in the corner. The woman followed his eyes to it and smiled. 

“Can you play?” she asked.

Jaskier didn’t give an answer but the woman walked over to the lute, picked it up, and handed it to him. It felt right in his hands. He plucked a few strings, hissing at their discordant noise, and somehow knew just how to tune it. In a few moments, he was gently strumming a few chords. The strings felt sharp on his hands, clearly, he hadn’t played for a while but it felt familiar nonetheless.

“A bard,” the woman said at last, “you know, the mind may forget but the body never does. 

He nodded distractedly. Perhaps he would be fine. It wasn’t as if bards needed elaborate backstories. He didn’t need an identity. He had a name, Jaskier. 

Then he shook his head and handed it back to the woman, “Thank you for letting me play it briefly.” 

He moved to hand it back to her but she pushed it into his hands and said, “No, keep it. It was my sons. He was killed seven years ago by the Butcher. You’ll make better use of it now.”

Jaskier took the lute with reverence, “Many thanks.” 

He paused, “The butchers?”

The woman clenched her hands, “An absolute monster with white hair and two swords, slayed ten men in town six years ago. He was chased out of Blaviken.”

“Ah.”

“You’ll be lucky to never meet him.”

“I suppose I would be.”

Jaskier made to begin walking towards the door. He had a feeling now under his skin, he had to leave, had to go somewhere, do something. Before he made it to the door the woman stopped him. 

“Leaving?”

Jaskier nodded, “I really cannot justify intruding on your hospitality any longer.”

She shook her head, “Young men, always trying to escape. Here, let me set you up with a travel pack and some food.”

“No really don’t-”

“I will not hear anything from you. Let me do this,” her eyes took on a sadder tone, “You remind me of my son, let me do this.”

Jaskier felt guilt twist in his chest and nodded. The woman, Hilda he learned her name was, ended up giving him a small travel pack, enough food to last a week a few pairs of clothes leftover from her son. He swung the lute onto his back and waved goodbye to Hilda as he left Blaviken. 

In her parting words, she shouted at him to eat more, he looked practically starved. 

He tried not to think about his past. According to Hilda, he had been practically emaciated and she was very surprised he didn’t have further health complications. He had nothing of value on him and had been found wearing rags. Hilda didn’t recognize him which meant he wasn’t from Blaviken and without any other identifying features, well, there was nothing to tie him to anywhere. Jaskier was alone. 

He could tell, in those few minutes with Hilda, that if he had asked she would have allowed him to stay. Jaskier reminded Hilda of her son and he would be welcome there. However, it didn’t feel right. He had an urge to travel, to leave, he couldn’t imagine staying in one place. There was something out there he had to do, he just knew it. The difficulty was he didn’t quite know what it was yet. 

In lieu of any other ideas, Jaskier traveled. He went south to Redania in the hopes of finding work. Jaskier quickly found that while being good at playing the lute made for a good career as a bard in theory it was much more difficult in practice. For one, he had no credentials and had studied under no master. Sure, in war times or in very seedy taverns they wouldn’t care, but if Jaskier actually wanted to earn some coin he would have to show some proof of study. 

He couldn’t compete in festivals or at any courts which kept him firmly stuck on the dredges of bard society. Unfortunately, he couldn’t exactly just claim to have studied somewhere or another or drop the name of a master he had studied under. The bard community was all based on who-know-who and he knew no one. Elitist pricks. 

So Jaskier found himself limping along the continent making enough money to eat, without a family name to help or credentials to get him by. After just two months of living this way, he decided that enough was enough. He headed west towards Oxenfurt and decided that no matter what he was going to study at their academy of arts. 

Granted, he had no family name but Jaskier had found that he had a brilliant liar. In many ways, it was about presentation and confidence more than anything else. 

So, one fine Sunday morning, Jaskier strolled up to Oxenfurt, wearing the finest clothes he had stolen from a Nobleman’s house in Whitebridge. He strolled right through the front gates and smiled at every person he passed. Jaskier knows the effect he can have on people and plans to use it to his fullest effect. 

Jaskier does sometimes wonder about the scars on his body. He had a large one on his neck and a small one on his left eyebrow but by far the worst was his back. His back was absolutely covered in burn scars which he would attribute to the explosion that cost him his memories but they were years old. Hilda was guessed that maybe they had healed rapidly after being exposed to magic in the explosion but even that was a flimsy guess at best. However, very few people saw his back and with a few scar creams the one on his eyebrow had practically disappeared and the one on his neck, well, he liked to wear high collars when he could. 

He asks a young woman where he could possibly find the headmaster’s office and she points him in the right direction, blushing. Jaskier strolls into the room and sits down in a chair across from the man. He is older and has a very severe frown on his face. That frown only grows deeper when Jaskier slides into the chair across from him. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz at your service,” Jaskier begins, pulling the name out of thin air, it just felt right to him, “Viscount de Lettenhove.”

A city that had been destroyed decades ago but Jaskier doubted this man knew that. The headmaster raised his eyebrows and Jaskier took that as a sign to continue.

“I have been sent here at the behest of my parents to study the finest of the liberal arts. You take students based on talent and I assure you I have plenty.”

He brought up his lute and played a complicated riff then looked at the headmaster for approval. 

The man began laughing uncontrollably. 

“Nobles these days,” he said, “Yes Julian Alfred Pankratz, we will accept you to Oxenfurt, the sheer nerve you just showed demands nothing else. Be warned, we are harsh taskmasters here and no amount of noble blood will save you from failure.”

Jaskier gave a winning smile, “Of course sir, thank you, and please call me Jaskier, it’s my stage name.”

This was the start of a beautiful relationship. Jaskier was quickly set up with a small room to live in. He would pay for room and board by transcription and working for the professors at Oxenfurt and other traveling bards that happened to pass through. He accepted this. 

Luckily, he had some memory of how to write music, even if he wasn’t particularly good at it yet and could transcribe easily enough. He was worked hard but pushed himself even further. Classes at Oxenfurt were difficult and having to keep up the pretense of being a noble was straining Jaskier. 

It didn’t help that he had quite possibly the worst housemate in the history of the Continent. The man couldn't even properly string together two notes and instead insisted on simply playing around and changing the tune of previous popular songs. Jaskier was disgusted by his lack of creativity as well as his absolute atrocious ideas of housekeeping. He was a slob to be quite frank and Jaskier spent almost as much time cleaning up after Marx as he did working on his own compositions. 

Their issues came to a head when Marx stole Jaskier’s piece for a local bard competition. See, the instructors had offered the students an opportunity to compete and if they won could gain a mastery in one of the several liberal arts. Needless to say, the competition was going to be fierce and Jaskier knew as much. He had spent an entire week composing a piece telling a tale of a queen sacrificing herself to save her true love. Then, on the night before the competition, he entered his room to find it absolutely trashed and the piece missing. 

“Valdo Marx you absolute bastard,” he cried out, running into the other’s room, “Where is it?”

The other man, smug as anything, looked up from his own parchment, “Whatever do you mean?”

Jaskier walked over to him and grabbed him by the collar, he was no longer the emaciated man he had been when he stayed with Hilda. He had been eating well and had as such filled out quite a bit. He was taller and stronger than Valdo and they both knew it. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jaskier said, “Where the fuck is my composition?”

“You must have misplaced it,” the bastard insisted, grin on his face, “I wouldn’t recommend hurting me though, the headmaster might see it as trying to weed out the competition. That’s cheating.”

He knew as well as Jaskier did that cheating resulted in automatic expulsion. There was nothing he could do. Jaskier took a deep breath before running back to his room. He had a song to write. 

He wasn’t able to fucking think of anything. He had spent so long on his previous work, goddamnit. Then he spotted his history textbooks on the shelf and opened it to the chapter they were working on. Currently, it was Elven history. There was an untranslated passage of Ancient Elven and as Jaskier read it he found that he understood most of what was written. In the book, they offered no translation and Jaskier remembered that in the competition the song itself merely had to be an original. The work itself could be a translation or transcription. This was perfect. He could work with this. 

The next day, he watched as student after student performed their pieces. Some of them were very good. Others, not so much. Valdo Marx got up and performed his fucking ballad but Jaskier kept his fists firmly at his side. He would prove them wrong. 

They called his number up and he made his way to the stage. The judges asked him for the title of the song and Jaskier responded, “This is my own translation of an ancient Elven tale of the heroine Ettarial. I present for the judges’ appreciation: Elaine Ettariel.”

Then Jaskier played the opening chords and began to sing, 

_"Loving you, is my life's goal_

_Beautiful Ettariel_

_Let me keep the memories' treasure (or let me keep the treasure of memories)_

_And enchanted flower_

_Your love's proof and sign_

_The drops of morning dew like silvered by tears"_

It was a beautiful song, made ever the more impressive by the fact that he had translated it himself. Jaskier knew that his professors would be coming up to him later to ask for a copy of it. He smirked in Valdo Marx’s direction as he finished. Take that you bloated troubadour. 

When Jaskier finished there was resounding applause and he drank in the audience’s attention greedily. It came as no surprise when he won the competition but what did surprise him was the headmaster’s request. 

“Before we offer you the mastery of music, the judges and I would like to see the original Elven and your translation of it.” 

Jaskier nodded and handed it off for the judges to peruse. After a few minutes and some nodding and murmuring the headmaster walked up to the podium. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have a first today. The winner, Jaskier has not only gained a mastery of music for his composition but his translation of the elven texts has gained him a mastery of language as well.”

Jaskier was absolutely floored. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Two masteries? He shook the headmaster’s hand and found himself surrounded by well-wishers on all sides. 

Soon, he moved out of the dormitories and left Valdo Marx behind. Someone with masteries was at another level after all. The best part was, once you started earning masteries it was almost like traveling down a snowy hill and collecting snow as you rolled down. He had hardly been at Oxenfurt for two years when he received his seven masteries. Jaskier was the fastest study they had ever seen and the youngest too many said. 

Of course, he had no idea of his own age and had never said, but most people assumed him to be a youth of near eighteen or twenty and he never thought to correct them. It wasn’t as if he knew what to correct them too. 

It was almost a relief to finally be free of Oxenfurt. While he had learned plenty within its walls he had also had to keep up a pretense. Now, he could be fully himself, traveling as he please, spreading songs to the masses. Maybe, he could try and find out more about himself along the way. It was interesting, in his two years at Oxenfurt no one had ever called him out on his lies and no one had ever recognized him. 

Many nights, Jaskier would lay in bed and wonder exactly who he was and where he came from. The scars on his back spoke of war but his ability to play the lute spoke of leisure. For many months, he wondered if he had any proficiency with weapons but once he was on the road, he had armed himself with a dagger just in case. 

Turns out, it came in handy. Apparently his young age and naive posture made him seem like easy prey and he was accosted on the road just a few weeks into his travels. Whatever he had done in his previous life, he knew his way around a dagger and had easily dispatched the lone highwayman who had tried to rob him.

  
His past was like a cloak constantly haunting him. Yet he could not see the outline of it and had no clues as to his own identity. It was confusing at the best of times so he often tried to focus on his music when everything became too overwhelming. As he traveled from town to town his new credentials brought him entrance into proper taverns now and festivals. Granted, out in the wider world he was not nearly as much of a prodigy as he had been at Oxenfurt. 

Academia was not everything and that became abundantly clear as his music was frowned upon more often than not and he had to work harder to win crowds over. He had been slowly gaining notoriety and had found himself traveling east of Oxenfurt. 

In the fall, two years after entering Oxenfurt for the first time, he found himself at a tavern in Posada. He was trying to curry favor with the crowd but apparently, his songs were not particularly popular today or perhaps the town had heard some bad news the previous night. Jaskier was booed off the stage with pieces of food being thrown at him, 

He looked down at the bread on the floor and shrugged. Ah well, food was food. Jaskier scooped it up into his pockets and then looked up. There, across the room was a man in the corner. He was dressed in heavy armor and had long white hair. There was something about him that drew Jaskier towards him like a moth to a flame. 

Pushing aside a serving girl, he began walking towards the man. Looking at him, he felt a sense of loathing which was odd yet also a sense of empathy. Some part of him said he had to warn the man, of what, he did not know.

He tried to shake these feelings off. Damn It Jaskier, he told himself, be here, in the moment. 

Reaching the table, he gave his most winning smile, leaned over, and said, “I love the way you just....sit in the corner and brood.”

* * *

Far away, in the Korath Desert, a woman clothed in layers of cloth sat in a cave. The sun was unbearably hot and she was carrying a large cloth bag. It was almost six feet in length and looked exceedingly heavy. 

The woman was dirty, blonde hair shaved close to the scalp did little to hide the dirt on her face and the wild pain in her eyes. This was a woman on a mission. A mission she had refused to give up on for years. She unwrapped the bag and inside was a body. It was a woman, around the same age with a grievous chest wound, it looked fresh. It was difficult to tell the body was almost six years old. It was even harder to tell than the woman had carried the body around for six years across the continent, looking for any answers to her quest. She had traveled from the most northern tip of the dragon mountains and journey to where the Nordlings lived to the southern continent where Nilfgaard ran lawless. Even the wild sea surrounding Skellige had been unable to stop her. 

All the while she had carried this burden. She had gone in search of answers but none had been forthcoming. It was not possible she was told. It should not be done, others said. Still, she brought the body with her, in hopes of a miracle. 

The preservation spell had worked well, the body was still beautiful, not even a hair out of place, yet it did not breathe. It did not think. 

She laid the body at the feet of the assembled group in the cave. It was a collection of women, all wearing floor-length black robes. They seemed shocked at the body and began talking amongst themselves. They had met here, in a neutral zone. If she was judged worthy she could return with them. The woman had heard rumors that she desperately hoped was true. She needed them to be true. 

“Please,” the woman begged, “I’ve heard of what you can do. I will give you anything. Please, please, just let her live.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I am literally crying in the club rn, I can't believe this is done. WOW. I will have the sequel up soon. Obviously it is gonna cover canon years but goddamn this was a lot. wow. 
> 
> normally I write more but this chapter took it out of me, especially Julian's little memory nostalgia trip.
> 
> Also what the hell I made a [Twitter too](https://twitter.com/bamf_jaskier/status/1286339860727500801?s=20)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is a bard. Geralt is a Witcher. Things can't get much simpler than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I SAID I was gonna make a sequel but then I wrote this chapter and it's cohesive enough that I'm going to instead be doing arcs all in one book instead of separate books altogether! that way you don't have to subscribe to multiple fics or anything. 
> 
> So without further ado welcome to Part 2: The Evergreen King

Jaskier walked, his feet creating a slow but steady path behind the Witcher. He had never met a Witcher before but the stories spoke for themselves. Monster-hunters, people called them. Mutants, others said. They were lauded across the continent for their skill yet feared in equal measure for the same reason. There was an inherent threat in knowing one person was that much more powerful than an average human, in knowing that should a Witcher desire they could rip a man’s head clean off their shoulders. It was the kind of fear not gifted to a king but to a beast. So that was how most categorized Witchers. 

Of course, this was just the impression that most men held. Jaskier had talked to many prostitutes in his travels and they had nothing but nice things to say about Witchers. As well, every person a Witcher had saved talked about their kindness, their humanity. It seemed that as was true with most things, Witchers were more complex than they were often given credit for. 

So when Jaskier saw the Witcher across the tavern, well, what else was he supposed to do but follow? Whenever he looked at the Butcher of Blaviken there was a strange combination of trepidation, loathing, excitement, and pity that went up his spine. It was a tantalizing combination that he wanted to further explore. There was not a single academic text on Witchers, not a single record of their fighting style. Everything that was known about Witchers came from word of mouth. Jaskier was planning to change that. 

Now he was following this Witcher, Geralt of Rivia up a mountain to hunt down a devil. He felt a grin split his face, fantastic. 

He jogged towards the Witcher, easily catching up to the man. 

“I’m not leaving,” Jaskier said. 

The Witcher grunted and continued walking at a faster pace. 

“You could likely use the help you know,” Jaskier shouted at him, practically jogging to keep up with the long strides, he pulled out his dagger and gave it an experimental swing, “I’ve been told I’m not a bad person to have in a fight and a devil seems like quite the formidable foe.”

The lauded Witcher grit his teeth, “Go away.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and put the dagger away, “You must have need of some help or another. I noticed you aren’t exactly a people-person. What if you have someone to be that person for you? I could spread tales of your heroic deeds, handle all the pesky attention you seem to hate.”

Geralt of Rivia looked over his person and scoffed, “I saw your performance. Didn’t seem much of a people person to me.”

How rude. He put a hand to his chest, even if the Witcher couldn’t see it and faked a hurt tone of voice, “I beg your pardon? I am a master of the seven liberal arts from Oxenfurt University, I think I know what a people-person is.”

“I suppose most Oxenfurt graduates have food thrown at them?”

“Well, you caught me on an off day. You let me catalog your heroics and I will have the continent eating out of the palm of my hand and you far more respected by the adoring masses.”

“I have no heroics to catalog,  _ bard _ .”

Jaskier shook his head, “I doubt that. You said the creatures in my stories don’t exist? Well, give me some real monsters to write home about. Give me maidens to save and stories to tell. Look at you, big scary armor, massive swords, dark scowl, I can practically smell the reluctant hero dripping off your skin. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that garlic? Trying to ward off vampires with the smell of death, are we? Perhaps heroics simply have the aroma of garlic and I’ve never been around any heroes long enough to know.”

“It’s garlic.”

The Witcher was clearly trying to lose him. Not today, Jaskier was not letting him get away that easily. This was important, he had to do this. Who was this man anyway to turn down the services of an Oxenfurt graduate? Most would be paying Jaskier his weight on gold to write songs about them and he offers to do it for free and this wench turns him down? He would not stand for this. 

Jaskier stops walking and says to the Witcher, “You’d think the Butcher of Blaviken could stand to be a little more grateful for my gracious offer.”

The Witcher stopped in his tracks. Finally. Then he turned around and with a smile looked at Jaskier, “Come here,” he said, his voice having none of the earlier venom. 

He walked over to the other man, convinced he had seen sense, “Yes my newest muse?”

The pain from the sudden punch to the gut practically caused him to fall to the ground but he kept himself upright with the sheer anger at this indignity.

“Come on Roach,” the Witcher said and continued walking.

Jaskier pushed himself up and got right next to the Witcher, Geralt, fuck if someone was going to punch him in the gut he was going to call them by their given name.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily. That punch to the gut only makes it ever-the-more clear that you desperately need my help. Imagine if you hadn’t simply given your new bard a love-tap and instead it had been the Alderman’s son or a King in disguise? You’d have been drawn and quartered before the day was out.”

Geralt sighs and jumps up onto Roach, kicking her sides leading her into a light trot. Well fuck, Jaskier tightens the strap on his lute and begins pacing himself at a light run beside the horse. He is not wearing the right shoes for this and he already knows he is going to get blisters from this. If this is going to be his new life, he ought to invest in better footwear. 

He looks up at the Witcher beside him and gives his sunniest smile, “If you thought I needed some exercise you could have just told me.”

Seeing him running beside the horse, Geralt is now looking at him like his head just fell off his shoulders and was rolling down the hills behind them. 

Jaskier was sweating now, his breath coming in pants and he felt his lute banging against his back with every step he ran but he continued talking, “You know….” he paused to breathe, “you are really going to need a name….if you are going to be a proper hero.”

Geralt had apparently elected to stop staring at him and was now ignoring him, looking ahead at the road and pretending there was not an increasingly sweaty bard running beside him. 

“The son of suns?”

Geralt continued looking ahead.

“The hero of the underfoot.”

Shit wait, that was an awful name. He could do better than that. As he continued running Jaskier kept throwing out possible titles for Geralt between breaths. 

“The Knight of the Continent.”

“The Lord of Nowhere.”

“The King of Lions, wait fuck Queen Calanthe would come after you for that one.”

“The White One.”

Geralt was now slowing down, apparently realizing that he was literally incapable of getting rid of Jaskier. He felt his legs cry in relief. However, as soon as he had stopped running the pain in his feet became all too apparent. 

“You are absolutely vicious,” Jaskier said once he caught his breath, “You must have made me run a mile or two at least.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Geralt said. 

“And he speaks at last!” Jaskier cried out, “Did any of my titles speak to you?”

“The Butcher is the most accurate.”

Jaskier feels his smile drop, “Now that’s just not fair, I offer up all these fantastic ideas and you go and choose not only one that already exists but also the least interesting?”

Geralt gives a grunt.

“How about...the White Wolf? Because right now, the only thing you are the butcher of is my feet. Do you know the blisters I am going to have?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well then, Mr. I don’t care, mind if I just hop up onto that saddle with you? Make room would you…”

Jaskier made to move as if to get up onto the horse but Geralt turned around and leveled a glare at him, “Don’t. Touch. Roach.”

He held his hands up and backed away. 

“Alright. Do not touch the horse. Got it.”

Geralt got off of Roach, tied the horse to a tree, and began walking into a nearby field. Jaskier assumed these were the fields the man had mentioned earlier. Of course, how Geralt had known to navigate here was anyone’s guess. He followed him into the underbrush and leaned into his ear and whispered, “What exactly are we looking for again?”

Geralt pushed Jaskier away, “Blessed silence.”

“Yeah, that’s not really my thing. So, ever hunted a devil before Geralt, or is this going to be the first time for both of us?”

“Devils do not exist,” Geralt said at length.

Jaskier nodded, “As yes, of course, they don’t, so let’s just wait in this field then and wait for this not-devil to appear.”

“That is exactly what we are doing.”

“Then what is the end-goal here?”

“Wait for either a monster to appear or for the bandit to arrive. Either way, I am getting paid.”

Then, as if summoned by Geralt’s pessimistic words something hits Geralt in the head, causing him to let out an expletive. 

Jaskier can’t help but smile, “Act Two begins! What was that? Looks like a tiny cannonball from a…”

Then he spots it. From a bush nearby a head appears, two horns poking out from either side of its head. He had not fully expected to meet a real Devil today but fate sometimes smiles on him. Rarely.

“Over there!” Jaskier cried, “A real devil!”

He turns to Geralt, “And you said they didn’t exist.” Jaskier stands up to get a better look but then something hits him in the head and everything turns black. 

When he wakes up he is bound in rope and in a cave. There is light streaming from multiple holes in the walls and he figures they must not be underground. Jaskier tests the strength of the rope. No luck there. Worst of all, he has an unconscious Witcher attached to him, so even if he managed to escape, he wouldn’t be able to carry Geralt out of here. Not dressed in all that heavy armor at least. Somehow, Jaskier doubts Geralt would appreciate being woken up to find himself stripped of his armor and slung over the shoulder of a bard. 

Jaskier maneuvers himself so he can feel the dagger at his side. Good. Looks like they hadn’t disarmed him. If nothing else, he had that going for him. Currently, there was no one in the room with them. He wondered what the devil had been doing in kidnapping them. It was unlikely they were about to be eaten, considering it seemed to eat mostly grain. Perhaps they wanted them as servants like the fae realm? Maybe they wanted to try and ransom them to Posada?

He felt Geralt groan behind him and Jaskier tried not to sigh in relief. 

“This is the part where we escape,” he whispers to Geralt.

Geralt scoffs, “This is the part where they kill us.”

“Who’s they?” Jaskier asks. Clearly Geralt knows more about this situation that he does. Apparently he’s managed to have some revelations while unconscious, or perhaps he could have found something out after Jaskier was sent off to dreamland back in the field. Either way, he can’t think for on it long because in a moment there are two figures walking in through the door. 

The first heads straight for Geralt, raising a leg to kick him in the face, “ _ Beast! _ ” she shouts in Elder. 

The second goes for his lute, and while Jaskier is relatively sure Geralt can take a hit, his lute is not too sturdy, “No, no, not the lute, don’t touch the lute.”

Geralt sighs, “Elves.”

The elve continues to strum his lute, “Come on, don’t touch it, I just tuned it today,” Jaskier is complaining.

The red-haired elf looks at him, “ _ Shut up! _ ” she says.

“ _ I wasn’t talking to you! _ ” Jaskier yells back in Elder. He was completely fluent in Elder, had in fact received one of his masteries due to his knowledge of the language. He was also fluent in werebubb and passable at dwarvish. One had to be rather good at languages to be a bard after all. 

Unfortunately, the elf holding his lute doesn’t notice and gives him a nasty grin as he breaks Jaskier’s lute over his knee and then walks out of the room.

“Do you want to die right now?” The red-haired elf asks Geralt in common.

“As opposed to later?” He says in return.

Apparently she takes that as a challenge and continues to beat Geralt. 

“Fuck off!” Jaskier says and she turns to him.

“Feeling left out?” She says and then kicks him in the gut.

Fan-fucking tastic. He was going to have quite the bruise in his gut after this. Did his torso just look particularly beatable today?

“Leave him alone!” Geralt yells at her, “He’s just a bard.”

She turns to Geralt once more, “You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” she says, accenting her remark with a punch to Geralt’s face.

“Everything you touch you destroy,” Another hit his face, then another. She rounds out her little statement with a knee to his face. 

Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s expression but he’s sure it is not pleasant to look at. What have they done to deserve this treatment?

“I’ve read about you,” he says to her, voice calm, “I’ve read about your golden palaces beneath the mountains. Tell me, does it burn to have nothing left in your life but empty riches and the cowardly satisfaction of beating a bound man?”

She grows angry, stalking over to Jaskier and grabbing his chin, tilting it upwards, “Do you like my golden palace,” she says, gesturing at the dirt around her. She squeezes his chin painfully, “Does it live up to your tales?”

Moving her hand away from Julian to grab a handful of dirt from the walls she throws it into his face. He has just a moment to close his eyes but it still makes it hard to see. He can’t even rub the dirt off his face.

“How do my riches feel on your skin?” She asks, now leaning in towards Geralt, “Would you like a taste of the pain I have suffered these past decades?”

Geralt, in a shocking show of strength he neglected to use before headbutts the elf and sends her flying. 

Jaskier smiles silently for a moment but then notices she isn’t getting back up. She coughs up blood and surely Geralt didn’t hit her that hard?

He tried to blink the dirt out of his eyes, “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“She’s sick,” a new voice says and the devil from earlier walks into the room followed by an elf with blonde hair. 

It was the blonde who spoke and he doesn’t spare a glance for Jaskier or Geralt and wastes no time sinking down next to the fallen woman and checking her for injuries. 

Jaskier finds himself drawn to the other man that has just entered the room. Distantly, he heard Geralt say, “Who’s this?” and the devil responds, “Filavandrel king of the elves,” but it sounds far away. 

He can’t help but find himself captivated by the man. There’s something about him that feels so familiar, something pulling him towards the elf. He’s wearing layered clothes and his hair is in slight disarray but he is calm and collected in the chaos. Jaskier wants to know him desperately. 

_ “Who are you?” _ he says, unaware he slipped into Elder. 

At the sound of his voice, the blonde elf, Filavandrel, turns towards him. His eyes widen and his face pales. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. He stands up and walks towards Jaskier, crouching down to face him,  _ “You should be dead,”  _ Filavandrel says. 

_ “That’s a bit rude, don’t you think. Wanting me dead simply because I’m a human.” _

The king looks surprised,  _ “A human….” _ he pauses and then looks over Jaskier, taking in his outfit and the Witcher tied to his back.

_ “What’s your name?”  _

_ “Jaskier.” _

The King’s face falls a bit and he moves away from Jaskier,  _ “I see.” _ he says and then Geralt interjects.

“I’m sure you are having a lovely conversation but for those in the room who don’t speak elder could I have a fucking word in?”

Filvandrel turns to Geralt and responds, “Apologies, no one was supposed to be hurt in this venture of ours.”

The red-haired elf speaks up, “What are two measly human lives compared to the blood of elves that paints this land?”

“Toruviel, not now,” Filavandrel says sharply. 

Just one breath after Geralt says, “Just the one human, and he’s an idiot, feel free to let him go.”

The king looks over Jaskier, “Just the one human,” he repeats, then shakes his head, “I’m afraid if I let either of you go, knowledge will spread of our whereabouts to the humans in Posada. We couldn’t survive another assault.”

“So you are going to kill us then?” Geralt asks.

“Perhaps,” Filavandrel responds.

“The lesser evil,” Geralt states, “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”

There’s a sense of self-hatred to Geralt’s statement and Jaskier finds the King’s eyes on him once more, searching him. He was looking for something, Jaskier knew. He wanted him to say something, do something, Jaskier just didn’t know what. Did the King really distrust him so, human as he was? 

“Perhaps I will spare you instead,” the King says as length, “but I question, would you stand by if we were to attack the humans? To take revenge for pushing us from our lands? For making homes in our ruins and polluting chaos with their magic?”

“Chaos is the same as it’s always been,” Geralt says.

Filavandrel laughs, “You tell yourself that, sign-user. You never could grasp the intricacies of the craft.”

Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face but he can practically feel the scowl. 

“Attacking would be foolish, you would be cutting off your ear to spite your face.”

Filavandrel grows angry now, tone rising, “You think this is about pride? My elders worked with humans and got robbed of all they had. And when they fought back. They were slaughtered. “The Great Cleansing”, humans call it. I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain.”

It was strange, Jaskier felt himself shaking. He could hear the shouts of people, crying out for help. He closed his eyes and shook his head but he could see the shapes of fires burning, he looked down and saw blood on the floor. His pulse began to race. Where was he? Where were his swords? He tried to move his hand, to move it so he could-so he could-so he could what? What could he do simply by waving his fucking hand? Where was he? Was the ground shaking? He felt his limbs growing numb and he wanted to scratch off his skin, to feel grounded in his body once more but he couldn’t move, couldn’t see. His vision was growing smaller, tunneling. 

Filavandrel was still speaking but to Jaskier, it sounded as if he was speaking from rooms away. 

“I don’t wish to bury anyone else. I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers. Now I’m Filavandrel of the Edge of the World. If I bring my people down from these mountains, it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us. Pariahs of half-blood children.”

Half-blood children. Jaskier hears a woman’s voice, “ _ They burned him in the town square.” _

Then something snaps. A flash a blue overcomes his vision and his pulse slows down, his vision returns to normal. The voice leaves his mind he can hardly remember what he was so worried about. 

He supposed he was very imaginative. Filavandrel had used rather graphic descriptions. It was difficult, Jaskier thought, to live through the destruction of your people. He was a very empathetic person. Likely he had been just a little too caught up in his dramatic mental reenactment. That was all. 

Geralt is speaking now, “ Then go somewhere else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.”

“Like you, Witcher?” The king says, scornfully. 

“I have learned to live with them. So that I may live.”

The Witcher sounds resigned and there is something in his tone that resonates with Jaskier. He has never had a home. He’s traveling, searching for something. They both are, reaching out for something neither of them knows or understands, existing in the world but never truly living in it. 

Filavandrel looks over both of them.

“You may leave,” he says at last.

Toruviel leaps up, “You cannot possibly let them go!” She shouts, “We are ready to fight, to take back our land, let’s begin the bloodshed with these two monsters.”

“I have my reasons,” Filavandrel snaps back.

He takes out a dagger and cuts the rope binding them. Jaskier stands up and shakes out his limbs. Geralt leans his neck one way then the other, cracking it and stretching out his arms. 

Jaskier walks over to the pieces of his lute and bends down to pick them up. Filavandrel is suddenly beside him. 

“As apologies for this situation, I could find you another?”

This is quite suspicious, what reason would the King of the Elves have for giving him a lute. Still, best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Seems fair,” Jaskier says.

The King nods, “Follow me and I will find you one,” he turns to leave the room but looks at the horned man and Toruviel, “Make sure the Witcher finds his horse, I’ll bring the bard out myself.”

Geralt looks like he is about to protest but Filavandrel holds up a hand, “I won’t hurt your bard, Witcher. I just want to repay my mistakes. If you are worried, it isn’t as if you don’t know where to find us.”

Then Filvandrel takes another passage out of the room, leading deeper in the tunnels and it grows truly dark now, no more sunlight streaming through holes in the walls. Jaskier follows, excited but nervous at the same time. Then, they turn a corner and the King drags Jaskier into a room, slamming him against a wall and looking him in the eyes.

_ “Now that we are alone...What are you doing here? What game are you playing? You should be dead.” _

He seems angry and Jaskier does not quite know how to answer his questions. It seemed odd that the King should wish him dead so many times but he supposed he was the only human in the room. Jaskier answered honestly, in Elder of course, it always helped smooth things along when you were speaking their native language...

_ “I simply followed the Witcher around. I’m not playing any game. Before today, I honestly believed elves were something out of a story. I had no idea there were any still living.” _

The King pulled back from Jaskier, then he chanted something and threw his hands out at Jaskier. The bard threw his arms up in some attempt to protect himself but the orange glow simply washed over him. Then Filavandrel looked extremely confused.

_ “You are...human,”  _ he said.

Jaskier nodded,  _ “I believe that was rather obvious.” _

_ “And you have never met an elf before today.” _

_ “No, and let me tell you, this is not exactly giving me the greatest impression of elves as a whole.” _

Filavandrel backed up and ran his hands through his hair. He looked worried. Jaskier wanted to comfort him but didn’t exactly know how.

_ “Look, ummm, I can clearly see that you don’t want any humans to know you are here so I can write a song that makes it seem as though you were vanquished by Geralt.” _

The King turns towards him and Jaskier held his hands up, “ _ I’m not trying to say that Geralt would have been able to beat you guys, I’m sure you are...fantastic fighters, really great, just, that, well, humans need to think the elves are gone right? Keep Dol Blathanna safe.” _

“ _ You can’t exactly share these tales without a lute can you?” _ The King said, at last, grabbing a lute from a stand in the room. Jaskier looked around the room for the first time and noticed it seemed to be bedchambers. Well shit if the King had brought him into his rooms this must be his lute. 

He took it from Filavandrel and it fit perfectly in his hands. It felt familiar, and Jaskeir could almost imagine himself spending long nights playing this lute. He had never seen it before in his life but already it felt as though he knew every inch of it.

“ _ Thank you,” _ he said, “ _ This is an honor, I can’t possibly take this.” _

_ “All I ask in return is that you keep our location a secret and you give me a vial of your blood.” _

Jaskier stops at this strange request. A vial of his blood? What use could Filavandrel have for his blood? Still, he really needed that lute and it was absolutely gorgeous. He acquiesced. 

The Elven King drew a quick slice across Jaskier’s arm and collected his blood in a vial, closing it cleanly. He wrapped a small bandage around Jaskier’s arm and thanked him.

“ _ I hope I don’t get kidnapped another time,” _ Jaskier said, “ _ I might just cry if I lose this lute.” _

Filavandrel waved his hand,  _ “You look like you’d get into trouble, there are spells of invulnerability and protection on the lute so feel free to bash in as many heads as you’d like with it.” _

Jaskier smiled, _ “Somehow, you know me far too well. _ ”

The King led him out of the rooms and they began walking back towards the outside world. Jaskier looked around in awe at the lights illuminating the corridors,  _ “Have the Elven people been living down here?” _

_ “Ever since the Great Cleansing. We have magically-induced farms but unfortunately one of them failed this year and we had to resort to having Torque, the Silvan, steal grain for us.” _

_ “This is amazing.” _

Filvandrel shrugged, “ _ The Elves all banded together after the destruction of Dol Blathanna, we’ve managed to preserve a remarkable amount of culture. We had some help as well.” _

_ “From who?” _

_ “Have you heard of the Nightingale Prince?” _

Jaskier shook his head, that name sounded vaguely familiar? Perhaps he had read about it in textbooks back in Oxenfurt. There had been far too many names and historical figures to memorize. Anyone who had helped the elves during the Great Cleansing. would likely be dead by now. That was practically 60 years ago now. 

_ “There's a legend. A Witcher who went rogue, who did not follow The Path but fought in a war against the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. He fought alongside me at the Great Cleansing. They say he trained The Shrike personally. They called him the Nightingale Prince. He helped us rebuild in the aftermath of the Great Cleansing.” _

Filavandrel spoke with the tone of someone reciting a passage from a book, it felt important, his words, they called to Jaskier.

“ _ You may have heard of him as the Slaughterer of Novigrad.” _

Then Jaskier does remember. He’s read about Nightingale, one of the most brutal assassins to ever grace the continent. It was back in his first year, a contemporary history class. Nightingale only ever took out contracts on humans, but especially mages. He had killed 15 children in Novigrad then kidnapped Princess Renfri of Creyden and turned her into the Shrike, a warlord in the making. He had never known he was connected to the Elves. By most accounts, he had been killed a decade or so ago in battle. Many say the Shrike herself killed him. 

“ _ I had no idea Nightingale was connected to the Elves or a Witcher for that matter.”  _ Jaskier paused and continued wondering out loud as they walked, he could see daylight now. 

“ _ I wonder if Geralt knows him.” _

Filavandrel gave a soft laugh and said, “ _ I...doubt it. Not all Witchers know each other.” _

They reached the room Geralt and Jaskier had been held captive in before. There was a small tunnel leading back out into the field and the two of them made their way out there. 

Now Filavandral was outside with Jaskier. It was close to sunset now, the sun casting a golden glow onto the wheat in the fields. A breeze brushed past Jaskier, playing with a few stray strands of his hair, moving them in time with the grasses surrounding him. 

The King moved close to Jaskier, “ _ Be careful _ ,” he said, “ _ The Butcher of Blaviken is a dangerous man, even if you do not know the dangers. He has hurt people. He has committed crimes you cannot understand the severity of _ .”

“ _ I know he’s dangerous _ ,” Jaskier said, “ _ but he is trying to be better, to help people. I think he deserves that chance, the chance to be free of the stigma and guilt he is burdened with. The chance to be forgiven. _ ”

Filavandrel looks deep in Jaskier’s eyes, “ _ You think you can grant him that forgiveness? _ ”

“ _ I do _ .”

Then Filvandrel leans in and presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lips and his widen in surprise but he doesn’t have time to pull away before it is over. 

It is chaste but Jaskier could feel an emotion behind the kiss, longing. 

“ _ Be safe, _ ” the King says and then he is gone, back into the tunnels of Dol Blathanna.

Jaskier walks to where Geralt is standing under a tree, Roach in hand. He looks bemused. 

“What was that?” he asks.

Jaskier presses his fingers to his lips and feels a smile form onto his face, “I have no idea,” he says, giggling afterward, feeling giddy. He had just kissed an Elven King. Oh, this was going to be one for the ages. 

Beside him, Geralt got onto his horse and began walking her back down the trail. Jaskier noticed that Geralt was now keeping a slow and steady pace. He smiled, “So it appears you have accepted my presence then?”

“Accepted that I quite literally cannot be rid of you? Unfortunately.”

“Don’t frown like that, I’m sure with a bard as fabulous as me by your side people will be fawning over you within days.”

He stopped, “Wait a minute, Geralt, I don’t believe I ever introduced myself. Do you actually know my name?”

The Witcher’s face grew a bit red, “Yes.”

“Oh really?” Jaskier said, a grin growing onto his face, “then what is it?”

Geralt was silent.

“What’s my name, Geralt?” he said, “Come on, tell me.”

Geralt stayed silent, looking ahead resolutely but the blush on his face was growing worse and Jaskier took pity on him. 

“My name is Jaskier,” he said.

Geralt looks at him, “I knew that.”

Jaskier laughs, “Of course you did.”

With a spring to his step, he walks ahead of Geralt and begins strumming the lute. 

Behind him, he hears Geralt say, “So, was Filavandrel’s lute not enough for you? You had to go and steal the King’s chastity as well?”

“What can I say, bards, are Kings favored bed-warmers for a reason. This lute is a bit sexy, isn’t she? I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.”

Jaskier begins trying to create a tune for his future masterpiece.

_ Will the elf king heed _

_ What the witcher entreats? _

_ Is history a wheel _

_ Doomed to repeat? _

He shakes his head, “No, that’s… that’s shit.”

“I won’t disagree.”

He points a figure at Geralt, “Look, I promised to change the public’s tune about you. Let me play around with this a bit, I’ll find something that works.”

_ When a humble bard  _

_ Graced a ride along  _

_ With Geralt of Rivia  _

_ Along came this song  _

_ From when the White Wolf fought  _

_ a silver tongued devil  _

_ His army of elves  _

_ At his hooves did they travel _

_ They came after me  _

_ With masterful deceit  _

_ Broke down my lute  _

_ And they kicked in my teeth  _

Geralt coughed from behind him, “Kicked in your teeth, right, that’s what the king did with your face.”

Jaskier blushed but kept singing.

_ While the devil’s horns _

_ Minced our tender meat _

_ And so cried the witcher  _

_ He can’t be bleat _

Geralt interrupted again, “Why even bother being here to witness events if you are going to change everything in the song itself. That’s not how it happened. Where’s your newfound respect?”

Jaskier shrugged, “Respect doesn’t make history.”

_ Toss a coin to your witcher _

_ Oh Valley of Plenty _

Geralt sighed as Jaskier continued singing, “Why do I have the strangest feeling this song is going to be the death of me?”

Jaskier laughed and continued singing, somehow he knew that standing beside Geralt of Rivia was right where he was meant to be.

It was different, traveling alongside a Witcher. For one thing, far fewer bandits and assorted thugs accosted them. Jaskier had been un-robbed for months now. It was a pleasant feeling. Apparently being covered in armor was a fair deterrent for most would-be-thieves. 

He hadn’t been forced to use his dagger in months. It was a welcome feeling. It was a little boring and Jaskier was almost leaning towards asking Geralt to spar with him, just to make sure he was still in practice but just by looking at the Witcher, he elected that might not be the smartest of decisions. 

Geralt would either beat him into the ground to discourage him from asking to spar again or he would find Jaskier’s skills interesting enough that he would want them to become regular sparring partners. Neither option appealed to him as he only liked fighting on rare occasions and getting his ass handed to him by Geralt did not sound like an appealing time to him. 

Still, Jaskier was certain their friendship was growing stronger, just last week Geralt had given Jaskier real input onto one of his newest compositions and it was actually a rather helpful critique. 

While there were positives to traveling with Geralt there were also a fair number of negatives. Firstly, people really did hate Witchers and whenever the two of them would enter a town the first night they would have suspicious glances thrown at him all night until Jaskier was able to sing Toss a Coin, Geralt was able to the kill the beast, and the townspeople were saved. 

Shockingly, a catchy tune did wonders for someone’s reputation. It was difficult to hate something when everyone was singing about how great it was from the street corners. 

As a result of his hit song, Jaskier’s name was now gaining popularity. In the winter, he would likely be able to find a court to stay at, a gift not many bards could claim. He wondered where Geralt stayed during the winter. He figured that he might as well invite the Witcher along. He would likely refuse but who knows? Jaskier was certain that no royalty would turn down having a Witcher as their bodyguard for a Winter season. 

Now, however, the summer months were beginning to die down and fall was quickly approaching. Geralt and Jaskier had traveled to the small town of Murivel, following signs posted for a nekker nest. 

When they reached the small town, it was late and the shops were all closed but the lights of the tavern were still on. Geralt would have to try and find whoever posted the signs tomorrow. They walked into the tavern and the noise that greeted them was a shock compared to the silence outside. 

Jaskier saw Geralt wince beside him. Over the past few months, he had learned that the other’s hearing was more sensitive than humans. 

“I’ll get us a room,” Jaskier said in a quiet voice, “You can go take Roach to the stables, I’ll meet you around back.”

Geralt nodded and quickly left. Jaskier weaved his way through drunk patrons and found the tavern keeper.

“One room!” he shouted over the roar of people, singing, talking, even dancing. 

The tavern keeper nodded, “Third room on the right, that’ll be 10 ducats!”

Jaskier threw the money at him and walked away from the main part of the tavern into the rooming area. It was quieter here, good. He walked to the end of the hall and opened the door that led out into the stables. 

Geralt was standing there, in full armor, holding both their packs. It was a bit chilly as the nights were colder now but Geralt didn’t seem to feel it.

“Come on in,” Jaskier said, “I got us a room.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said as he moved towards Jaskier. 

He opened the room and found a nice clean room, with a hot bath already prepared, how on earth had they accomplished that, and a low bed with very soft looking blankets. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier said, “The tavern keep must not have seen you leave and assumed I was alone.”

He looked at the bed, it was a tight fit but it could work, “I think we can both fit, as long as you don’t kick in your sleep.”

Geralt sighed, “It’s fine.”

He then moved to take off his armor. Jaskier inspected his clothes. 

“I’m the cleaner of the two of us, I’ll bathe first while you spend the next twenty minutes getting out of your damn armor.”

This would technically be the first time they had shared such close quarters while inside but Jaskier tried not to think too much about it. Sure, Geralt was extremely attractive but he couldn’t let himself get attached to his muse. That had to be some kind of breach of bard professionality...right?

He sighed and took off his shirt, moving into the water. He heard Geralt take in a sharp breath behind him. 

“What?” he asked.

“Your back,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier stopped moving in the bath. Fuck. He hadn’t thought about that. Most days, he forgot his scars. They really were not that noticeable and hid themselves under his clothes very well. Geralt, however, had yet to see him shirtless, and now the scars on his back, the starbursts of scar tissue were all too clear to see. 

He was sure the one on his neck stood out as well. Damnnit. He wanted to lie, to tell Geralt that they were from a fire that burned in his childhood home in Lettenhove, that his parents barely made it out with their lives. Jaskier could see the story he might weave. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was a desire to have at least one person who he could be authentic with. Maybe he was simply tired of playing the noble for the students at Oxenfurt. Maybe he just wanted someone who could see him, who could share his true self. 

Wherever the reason, when Geralt asked, Jaskier told the truth.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said, “I had an accident just before starting Oxenfurt. I lost most of my memory. I woke up one morning and had scars on my back and an empty head.”

He turned and smiled at Geralt, not wanting to dwell on it too long.

“Come on, I’m sure you have scars worse than this. All the monsters you fight? One or two have to have gotten in a good hit.”

Geralt now had most of his armor off. Jaskier dunked his head underwater and cleaned it off with some soap. When he brought his head back out of the water Geralt was taking his shirt off. 

Fuck. Okay, this was just a completely platonic scar-sharing session. There is no reason to think about anything other than-oh fuck Geralt was absolutely built. I mean, of course, the armor made it clear the Witcher had some serious strength but armor alone could not help imagine the light dusting of hair across Geralt’s chest or the way his shoulders moved as he shrugged the shirt off or the giant fucking ropey scar going across his chest. Ah yes. Scars. 

“I got this fighting a wyvern as a boy. The first scar I ever received.”

“Fighting a wyvern? How old were you?”

Geralt looked considering, “I must have been about fourteen.”

“That is...very young. I’m pretty sure I was a piece of shit at fourteen.”

“I’m sure you were,” Geralt said in reply.

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to agree with me, you were likely just as much of a little shit as me.”

Geralt hmmed, “The life of a Witcher Apprentice doesn’t leave much room for fun.”

“Just to make this clear, you are telling me there was a moody fourteen-year-old Geralt grunting and hmmming his ways through wherever the hell Witchers live?”

Geralt didn’t respond so Jaskier sank back, “What even makes you a Witcher Apprentice, how did you qualify? Did you get dropped off like a school?”

The Witcher seemed to be in a good mood tonight, likely because he hadn’t yet interacted with other people and was volunteering more information that he normally would. Jaskier was determined to find out as much as he could. 

“We are given to the Keep and trained from a young age,” Geralt says at last. “We never had a choice in becoming a Witcher. It was train hard and hope to survive or die. At a young age, we were subjects to the trails which strip us of our humanity. Most do not survive.”

Geralt casts a glance over Jaskier, “I doubt you would.”

“I take offense to that,” Jaskier says. 

“It’s likely the truth. They say that only three out of every ten boys survive.”

“Sounds brutal.”

“It is.”

Geralt’s sentences are growing shorter now so Jaskier decides to stop this line of questioning. Nevermind that he had no idea what a keep is, what the trials are, or even if Geralt knows any other Witchers still living. Theoretically, he could use this information in a song or add it to the compendium he was building on Witchers. However, something stopped him. What little Geralt had shared today had been incredibly personal and Jaskeir wouldn’t want to exploit the terribly traumatic childhood of a Witcher simply for fame and fortune. Geralt had gotten lucky. Jaskier’s moral compass strikes again. 

Jaskier gets out of the bath and dries off quickly before changing and falling face first into the bed. 

He sees Geralt moving towards the bath and for a moment feels guilty as the water is pretty cold by now. Then Geralt makes a shape with his hand and fires flies out of it, heating the water right back up.

Jaskier sits upright, exhaustion forgotten in the face of  _ watching fire shoot out of Geralt’s hands _ . 

“You can do magic?” he says, incredulously. They’ve been traveling together for months and he had never seen Geralt show even a hint of magical prowess. During fights, he mostly used potions and his swords. But this whole time he could use fucking magic?

Geralt looks back at him, undressing fully and getting into the tub.

“Yes?”

“This whole time, I’ve seen you fight kikimores with your bare hands and you’ve been able to do magic?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “It’s really not much and it’s mostly combat magic.”

“Oh yes, it’s only combat magic, of course. So then why haven’t I seen you use it in combat?”

“Because it would only get in the way. Magic can’t solve everything.”

“It can solve a fair amount.”

“Sometimes,” Geralt said, “you face opponents who don’t give a flying fuck about whether or not you can do magic and you have to goddamn adapt.”

“I wish I could do magic.”

Geralt sank into the water, washing his hair, “I pity the universe where you can use magic.”

“Hey!” Jaskier cried out, “I would make a great mage.”

He then thrust his hands out in imitation of a spell, “Boom, now my next song will be an absolute hit!”

“Magic doesn’t work like that.”

“And how much do you even know about how magic works?”

“I know more than you.”

Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, “Fair.”

He felt the exhaustion creeping back up onto him. It had been a long day of walking and he was feeling utterly tired. Every time he blinked his eyes felt heavier. He grabbed a blanket and pulled it over himself and closed his eyes. 

A few minutes later, just as he was on the precipice of waking and sleeping he felt a weight settle in next to him as Geralt joined him in the bed. 

It was dark now, Geralt had put all the lanterns out and Jaskier was trying to focus on sleeping. There was a contract tomorrow, crowds to woo, songs to write. There was simply so much to do

* * *

Beyond the Fiery Mountains in the far East of the Continent was the desert land of Zerrikania. For miles, it looks like simply a desolate landscape but go far enough in, with the right guides, and you would find a bustling civilization, connected from oasis to oasis, all hidden by passage through a hidden valley. 

It was difficult to find Zerrikania but not impossible. However, most outsiders were rarely welcomed as Zerrikania was home to the last free dragon-country. Every other kingdom on the continent made a sport out of hunting down dragons, carrying their heads on pikes like a sick trophy. But here, in Zerrikania, dragons were worshipped as gods. 

It was for this very reason Deidre had come searching for Zerrikania so many years ago. Dragon magic was powerful, for those who could control it. It was also her last resort. When Deidre had first arrived in the desert, begging for help from the Cult of the Divine Dragons, she had almost expected to be turned away. 

Instead, they had allowed her and her precious cargo into their borders and taken her to meet the head Priestess of the Golden Temple. The head priestess was a woman covered head to toe in layers of fabric. The skin of her hands was very dark and covered in ink. 

When she saw Deidre, carrying her cargo, she motioned the other women away. 

“Come closer,” she said, and Deidre, without even thinking about it, took a step forward.

her down,” the Head Priestess said once again.

Deidre listened, putting Renfri’s body down with care. The Priestess held her hands in front of her and in a few moments, a pool of golden light collected in her hands, almost as if an invisible stream of water was filling her hands and then the Priestess rubbed her hands together and the golden light covered her skin like an oil. 

She then began chanting and moving around Deidre. For the first time in her life, Deidre felt the touch of magic on her skin. How was she doing that? Deidre was a girl of the Black Sun. Magic was not supposed to touch her, to affect her. This was impossible. 

Then the Priestess moved away and nodded. 

“This is the perfect palace for you. I know why you are here, and in time, you may learn the answers to the questions you have but before anything else, you must understand where you come from.”

“I understand where I am from.”

The Priestess tilted her head, “Are you sure?”

Suddenly, Deidre wasn’t sure at all and she found herself following the Priestess, needing the answers to questions she didn’t even know she had. Except...she looked back at Renfri’s body, preserved by a kind witch just on the verge of death. For years, Deidre had been looking for a way to stop the spells and heal Renfri but nothing had been forthcoming. 

“Don’t concern yourself with her body,” the Priestess said, “I assure you it will be safe.”

She moved into another room and Deidre followed her. She found herself in some kind of observation room. The ceiling was made completely of glass and through it, Deidre could see the night sky, stars so bright it looked like the sky was full of diamonds. It was breathtaking. 

“You are a Daughter of the Hidden Moon yes?”

Deidre started, “I don’t know what that means?”

“Most of the Continent calls it the Black Sun.”

“Oh, yes I am.”

“Then you have likely spent your entire life thinking you are immune to magic.”

Deidre nodded, “I have to ask, how did you manage to use magic on me? It normally dissipates before ever reaching me.”

“This is where you do not understand where you are from, your origins. What do you think the Black Sun did?”

“I...I don’t know, I’ve spent most of my life running from what it did to me.”

“Balance,” the Priestess said, “The Black Sun forced balance. For centuries Elves lived on the continent, using magic the way it was meant to be used.”

Again, she cupped her hands together and the same golden magic pooled inside of it, “Magic can be brought into our world through two pathways: It can be pulled in, such as mages use or it can be invited in. When it is pulled in, magic is easier, simpler and you can gather more chaos much faster. However, it puts a strain on chaos as a whole, it makes it harder for naturally occurring chaos to flow through and pollutes the realm of magic. When you invite chaos in, it comes slower but more naturally. You have to offer yourself up to magic and you only receive what you need, not what you want. It’s a path that requires the user to be humble.”

“How does this apply to my...anti-magic?”

“Have you ever had an elf cast a spell near you?”

“No.”

“Then you wouldn’t know. The Hidden Moon’s gift was chaos’s way of fighting against its own pollution. You and any girls like you cannot be affected by magic that is pulled into this world. Only magic freely given can affect you. So if any elves or any Zerrikanians were to use magic, it would not affect you.”

“Does this mean….?”

“You could use magic to heal your cargo? Yes, it does. However, in order to save her, you must do it yourself. You must be willing to give and sacrifice. The personal connection required to bring her back could not be formed by an of our healers here. It would have to be done by someone with a strong emotional bond to her. It would have to be you.”

Deidre felt determination growing beneath her chest. She could do this. Her entire life, she had wondered about magic, considered the reasons why it wouldn't affect her. Now she knew why. She had been created as some way to balance the harm mages were doing to chaos. However, if she wanted, she could learn magic herself. Real magic. 

Her eyes glittered as she looked into the Priestess’s eyes, “I will do it.”

“Good, you can call me Saulrenith.”

Deidre took to her new apprenticeship with a passion she no longer knew she possessed. It was difficult, learning everything from scratch in adulthood most girls at the temple had learned as children but she was a quick study and determined to learn. 

Of course, most of the training for the Cult of the Divine Dragons took decades, but Deidre was determined to take however much time she needed to learn how to bring Renfri back. 

She sent word to Eskel that she would be staying in Zerrikania for the foreseeable and not to come and find her, they would not be welcoming of a Witcher here. 

Zerrikania was entirely different from anywhere she had lived before. For one, it was a matriarchy, and women were considered for positions such as leading and fighting before men. This meant that there were different pressures on Deidre to perform and behave well. It was expected in Zerrikania for women to uplift and protect others and Deidre found herself getting in the middle of a number of arguments and issues to talk sense into people. Her position as an apprentice at the Golden Dragon Temple also afforded her a certain level of responsibility. She had her own duties such as serving people who came to visit the temple and keeping it clean but she also had to watch what she said and be careful in her conduct. 

No more cussing and bar fights for her. Not that she didn’t fight, of course, an apprentice was expected to know how to defend herself and others. It was unfortunate that she did not have Beann’shie and D’yaebl with her, having left them both at Kaer Morhen to protect the Keep. However, Eskel had taught her well with the sword and she was able to keep up her practice through the years. 

The most difficult part was in actually learning the magic. She had a sort of mental block where Deidre simply couldn’t force herself to look past her own previous failings with magic and when she kept expecting to fail, she failed every time. It was a vicious cycle and she couldn’t help but wish she had one of her family members to guide her. 

But of course, Julian was dead, Renfri was nearly so and Eskel was a continent away. She was on her own for the first time in years and she had to prove herself. 

Renfri and her had always joked that in another life, Deidre would have made a fantastic mage, now that was coming true. 

Deidre had always been the angrier out of the two of them. Renfri thought things through, she let her passions inform her decisions but not make them for her. Meanwhile, Deidre was far more hot-headed and rushed into every situation she could in hopes of helping. 

Fuck, why had Renfri been the one to go? It should have been her. And the way Renfri died. 

Deidre clenched her fists. She had known Geralt. Considered him family in fact. He had never met Renfri or Julian of course, no one besides Eskel knew them, but Geralt had known her. He had known that she was a girl of the Black Sun. He had known that mages had been chasing Deidre her whole life and had helped to protect her throughout her childhood. He knew the extent that mages would manipulate people to and how awful they were to Girls of the Black Sun. 

Why hadn’t he extended the same grace to Renfri? What had she done to earn his ire so? 

Deidre felt tears forming in her eyes as she cleaned the floor of the temple. Geralt had been the one to teach her to how to hold a sword the right way, he had been the one to show her the best way to fall, and that first winter in the keep, scared and worried for her future at just twelve years old, Geralt had been the one to tell her she wasn’t a mutant, a freak, that she was special. How could he have done this to her? He was family. 

If she was being honest with herself, Eskel could come and visit her in Zerrikania. They would tolerate his presence here. He might even learn their way of magic. Dragons know that Witchers use magic more similarly to Elves than anything else. But she didn’t want him here. 

She hadn’t seen Eskel since Renfri’s death, hadn’t been able to go back to Kaer Morhen knowing that Geralt would likely be there, knowing that she would have to look upon the face of Renfri’s murder. Deidre had no idea how Eskel reacted when he heard the news. They didn’t talk much anymore. She sent him missives to let him know she was still alive. That was all. There was a rift there and she didn’t know if she wanted to fix it. She didn’t know if she could. 

Deidre finished washing the floor and got up, putting the cleaning supplies away and heading, as she did every night, to the hall of ice. It was enchanted ice, meant to preserve the bodies of the great Priestesses of the Golden Dragon Temple. 

Here, Saulrenith had allowed her to keep Renfri’s body. Deidre found her way to the spot where Renfri stood, upright and encased in ice, looking for all the world that she was asleep. Until you looked closer. Then you could see the open wound in her chest that was still fresh, that looked new. 

Deidre could never bear to look at Renfri’s chest wound for long. She would think back to Geralt, teaching to fight with his silver sword, then she would imagine him plunging it into her chest, letting her die as he killed Renfri, smiling as she bled out beneath him. 

So most nights, Deidre looked at Renfri’s face, the freckles on her cheeks and the way her hair was curled just so. She told Renfri stories of her training, showing Renfri the tattoos she was slowly earning, becoming closer and closer to a mastery of magic, closer to bringing her back. 

Whenever you learned or created a successful spell or branch of magic, the temple would give you a tattoo to commemorate the occasion. So far, both of Deidre’s arms were slowly becoming covered in the tattoos, the ink coming together to form complicated, cohesive designs. When it was done, It would likely cover all four of her limbs and most of her torso. At least, that’s how the Priestesses looked. 

“I love you,” Deidre said, “I am going to save you, even if it takes me another ten years, even if I have to trade my very soul for yours I will bring you back. You are everything I have ever searched for and now that I finally have you I am not letting go of you that easily.”

With this proclamation, one which she made almost every night, Deidre moved out of the hall of ice, back to her bed, preparing herself for another day. She dreamed of the day she could hold Renfri’s hand, warm instead of cold and simply be. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write!! I'm basically considering putting in little bits in the end that are about Renfri and Deidre cause they are off doing their own thing in Zerrikania (also please let me know if you like this plotline at all...) 
> 
> Final note: There are so many throwbacks this chapter and so many little plot points that I am getting resovle UGH and I have elected NOT TO copy paste the canon dialogue but rather twist it to suit my own needs, so let me know what you think of Jaskier and Geralt's dialogue this chapter, feel good? feel bad?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt go to a Banquet. Deidre finishes her training.

There was simply no way every Witcher was as self-sacrificing as Geralt of Rivia. There was simply no way. If they were, there would be no Witchers left on the continent. In fact, Jaskier would be willing to bet his lute that Geralt had some kind of deity watching over him because he should not survive most of what he went up against. 

At first, Jaskier was content to leave Geralt be. Jaskier would sit and wait at the nearest tavern until Geralt returned, often holding a monster head in tow. Geralt would collect his money, Jaskier would perform and then they would be on their way. This was how it was done. Until a contract on a cockatrice in Vizima took a nasty turn. 

The sewers of Vizima were both literally and figuratively the underworld of the city. Literal shit ran through the dirtied waters and figurative shit made its home in the alleyways and side-rooms of the sewers. Cults, drug-lords, black markets, all had a home in the sewers of Vizima. Unfortunately, a cockatrice had somehow found its way into the sewers and while the people that did their business there were able to handle the standard ghouls and drowners, they drew the line at a two legged serpent with a rooster’s head that could turn a man to stone with a single look. It was a fair thing to draw the line at, Jaskier would admit. 

So, the assorted criminal underbelly of Vizima put up a contract and were willing to pay quite handsomely for it. Geralt and himself just happened to be lucky enough to hear about it before any other Witcher and met with the drug lord negotiating the contract as quickly as they could. None of this was out of the ordinary for their adventures. 

Jaskier got them a room at the nearest tavern, readied his lute for a performance while Geralt readied his swords for battle. They parted ways for the night, Jaskier to woo a crowd and Geralt to kill a cockatrice. The issue was, Geralt did not return. Normally, the Witcher would come limping in sometime during the last vestiges of Jaskier’s songs and he would wind down his performance, going to help Geralt clean up a bit. However tonight, Geralt never appeared. 

At first, Jaskier figured Geralt was taking longer than normal because this contract was in the sewers, it was more dangerous and it would take longer to travel through the sewers. He busied himself by going through Geralt’s bag and taking out the potions he kept there. Red, Yellow, clear, green. Jaskier had no idea what any of these potions did but they were rather pretty to look at, the liquid not thin enough to be water but not quite thick enough to be a stew. It almost defied the gravity of the bottle it was kept in. 

But he could not distract himself forever and by the time the first rays of the morning were peeking out over the horizons, Jaskier had resolved to go out and look for Geralt. He rummaged through Geralt’s bag, looking for any kind of weapon he could use. His one dagger likely wouldn’t be enough if Geralt was in any real trouble. 

There. At the bottom of the bag was a one-handed crossbow with a quiver of silver-tipped arrows. It clearly hadn’t been used in ages and Jaskier himself had never seen it despite traveling with Geralt for upwards of five years now. He tested the lever, making sure the crossbow still worked and smiled when he heard the release. Jaskier reset the bow and took off his jacket, leaving it on the bed. 

It was ridiculously early in the morning so there was no one to see as a bard made his way through the town, dagger on his hip and bow in his right hand. Yesterday, Jaskier had talked with Geralt about where he was going and so he knew there was an entrance to the sewers through the trade quarter. It was easy enough to find except the smell was quite difficult to stomach and Jaskier could not imagine how Geralt, with a Witcher’s senses, had been able to handle it. 

There were small stone walkways on either side of the sewer canal, and Jaskier made full use of them, hoping to keep his shoes clear of shit for as long as possible. He knew the cockatrice had been sighted somewhere south of here, near the black market but he didn’t know the exact direction. Luckily, there was currently only one path Jaskier could take. 

The sewers were a wholly unpleasant place. A smell of rot permeated every breath he took in and the air itself seemed heavy. This was only the stench of the sewers, he hadn’t even thought about what must lie within the slowly moving waters of the canal itself. It was thick like mud and similar in color but occasionally Jaskier would see a shape poking up through the muck. Once he believed he might have seen a dismembered hand. It was better not to think about it. 

It was completely silent, not a single sound of fighting. No crash of sword on stone or cry of victory. Jaskier could hear his footsteps echoing with every step he took. It was unsettling and as he headed in a generally southward direction he decided to chance calling out Geralt’s name. Surely if the cockatrice was still a threat he would have heard it by now. He took out a mirror just in case and shined it around every corner before he walked around it. 

“Geralt!” he cried out, listening as his voice echoed in the empty sewers. 

There was no response. Then, down one of the tunnels, Jaskier heard a scraping noise. He ran towards it as fast he could and the scene that greeted him was not one he would soon want to relive. Geralt was sitting, slumped against a wall, blood trickling out one corner of his mouth. There was a cut on his temple and he looked unconscious but his arm was wrapped around his midsection. 

Geralt had a cloth tied around his eyes and that reminded Jaskier of the cockatrice. He shut his eyes quickly and brought out his mirror. With a mirror in one hand and a loaded crossbow in the other, Jaskier made his way to stand in front of Geralt. 

There was a scraping sound again. Jaskier fired an arrow in that direction and flinched as he heard it hit flesh. The beast must be very injured, to let itself get hit so easily. It also must be close, to have allowed a novice such as Jaskier to hit it. 

He risked opening his eyes just the slightest, keeping them trained on the floor. There, just a short distance in front of him, in the waters of the sewer, Jaskier could make out the legs of the cockatrice. It was unmoving. Good. Perhaps the scratching noise he heard had been its final death throes. Geralt must have been too injured to make his way back and had passed out from blood loss. Jaskier would have to act quickly. 

He saw that Geralt’s sword was missing from his side but a silver glint caught his eye and he carefully looked at the cockatrice’s side. There was a silver sword sticking out of its neck. 

Jaskier slowly waded into the sewer, grimacing at the smell and pulled the sword out of the cockatrice. His own arrow had embedded itself in the beast’s side and honestly likely hadn’t done too much. 

Careful not to look into the rooster-like eyes of the cockatrice, Jaskier threw his crossbow off to the side and with a hard pull, yanked the sword out of the cockatrice’s neck. 

Blood spurted out and Jaskier moved away quickly, the blood of a cockatrice was extremely acidic and could cause burns. It sizzled as it touched the stonework surrounding them. Then, Jaskier began the laborious process of cutting off the monster’s head. Luckily, the rooster head made for a rather thin neck but the difficulty lay in avoiding the acidic blood. Then Jaskier spotted Geralt’s cloak just a few feet away from him. Perfect. 

He grabbed the cloak and made a final slice, causing the head to roll into the make-shift bag. The material was thick enough and clearly waterproofed so no blood soaked through. Now Jaskier had to some way drag both the head of the cockatrice and the body of Geralt back through the sewers and make it to the inn. 

He knew that if he could only get Geralt some of those potions he kept in his bag, everything would be fine. In the end, Jaskier ended up lifting Geralt up onto his shoulders, the man barely groaned which was a rather worrying sign and tied part of the cloak around his waist, dragging the head behind him. 

A laborious number of minutes, Jaskier reached the opening to the sewers. By this point, early morning merchants were setting up their wares, and Jaskier coming out of the sewers was certainly not a welcome surprise. It did not help that he looked an absolute mess, bloodied and dirtied clothes and covered in sweat from hauling a Witcher and a cockatrice head around, he likely looked mad. 

“A cart!” he said, “Is there a cart I can borrow for a moment? My friend, he’s gravely injured.”

Most turned away, ignoring his cries but one older man came over, pulling a small cart behind him. 

“Here,” the man said in a quiet voice, “I’ve just about had enough of ignoring people’s pain in this godforsaken world.”

Jaskier nodded, taking the cart gratefully, “Thank you so much,” he said, gently setting Geralt and the cockatrice’s head into it, “I will bring it back.”

“Made sure to do so,” the man said gruffly, pointing to a stall, “I’ll be there.”

Jaskier pulled the cart the short way back to the tavern, except now the morning was coming in full force and people were making their way through the streets. It was more difficult terrain to navigate and his arms were getting increasingly more tired. 

Finally he found the tavern and had never been happier that their room was on the ground floor and he wouldn’t have to climb a set of stairs. First, he brought the head in, setting it on the floor of their room. Then, he brought Geralt in, laying him down on the bed. 

He pulled off Geralt’s armor and saw that he had his hand over his midsection because there was a large burn where the cockatrice’s blood had spilled on Geralt, which must have been during the fight. Geralt also had a cut on his temple and feeling around the man’s head, Jaskier found a large lump on the back of it. Shit. Geralt likely had a concussion and he knew that someone going unconscious with a concussion was not a good idea. 

Jaskier glanced wildly around the room, his eyes alighting on the potions nearby. But which ones to use? It wouldn’t do Geralt any good to enhance his strength or speed now. Then, without his conscious mind even thinking about it, his arms began to move. 

He grabbed a golden-red potion, a pink one, a blue one. All swirling in their little vials. Quickly, he poured them into Geralt’s mouth, rubbing his throat to force the Witcher to swallow. Shit, he hoped he hadn’t just killed Geralt. A few moments later, Jaskier watched as Geralt’s wound on his stomach began to heal before his eye and the cut on his head stopped bleeding. Jaskier felt around the back of Geralt’s skull and the lump was abiding there as well. 

Finally, Jaskier untied the cloth covering Geralt’s eyes just in time for the Witcher to blink open his golden eyes and look into Jaskier’s blue ones. 

“What….?” Geralt tried to mumble out but Jaskier was already talking, worried giving way to a slight anger. 

“You absolute idiot! If I hadn’t come down to get you you very well could have died in that tunnel!”

Geralt tried to sit up and grunted in pain at the initial motion but eventually was able to swing himself up to a sitting position. 

“What happened, Jaskier?” he asked, ignoring Jaskier’s reprimands. 

Jaskier ran his hands through his hair, “When you didn’t come back, I worried and I did remember where you were entering the sewer so I made my way through literally shit and I found you unconscious next to a goddamn cockatrice.”

“And the beast,” Geralt said, “was it…?”

“Dead?” Jaskier finished for him, “Yes, it appears that in your infinite wisdom you were able to incapacitate it before you succumbed to your wounds.”

Geralt looked around the room and his eyes settled on the wrapped cloak, “You didn’t,” he said. 

“I couldn’t very well let you get almost eaten and then lose the money for the contract could I?” Jaskier stated, “I had no idea if the eyes still, you know, turned people to stone after death so it’s wrapped up tight.”

Geralt put his head in one of his hands, likely feeling a bastard of a headache forming, “Tell me you had some form of a weapon.”

Jaskier smiled, “I had this!” He said, holding up the crossbow. 

Geralt instinctively ducked, as if Jaskier was about to shoot him, “You will not be able to convince me you know how to use that.”

Jaskier shrugged, “You are right on that count but it was the best weapon I could find in such a short time. And I might have to learn to use it if you continue finding yourself in contracts half-cocked and almost-dying in subterranean sewers. You might need back up.”

“Jaskier, there is no conceivable way you would be able to take down a cockatrice.”

“I did say back-up? You clearly need someone to at least to be near you whenever you take a contract in case you become injured enough that you can’t make your own way back. And you know? Maybe having someone with a ranged weapon could be helpful.”

“You have no idea how to use that crossbow.”

“But I could learn.”

And just as Jaskier knew when Geralt finally let him come to travel with him, Jaskier also knew he had won this argument as well. Now he just needed to learn to use this blasted crossbow. Not that he would be helpful in every instance but it was better than nothing and maybe he could bring his notebook and make some observations about a Witcher’s fighting style or how exactly some of these beasts were slain. 

“I assume you used potions to bring me back,” Geralt said, looking at the contents of his bag lined up on the dresser nearby.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Geralt got up and looked over the vials, “Swallow, Kiss, Golden Oriole. You got very lucky Bard. Some of these would have only worsened my condition.”

“For a moment I was concerned I had killed you twice over.”

“If you are going to try and be more useful during contracts you may as well know what these mean.”

Jaskier walked over to where Geralt was. The Witcher began speaking, “The potions you used on me were swallow, meant to help the regeneration factor, kiss, for stopping bleeding and golden oriole for resistance to-”

“Poisons,” Jaskier said unbidden. He shook his head a bit, where had that come from? 

“How-” Geralt started but Jaskier cut him off. 

“Process of elimination. I must have stopped the cockatrice's venom some way?”

“Hmmm.”

Then Geralt was explaining the other potions he kept with him to Jaskier and while the bard did pay attention there was something very familiar about the information. 

_ “Your face is fucked up, do you have any potions on you?” _

Jaskier shook his head to get rid of the voice of ghosts. Sometimes phrases, voice, words would slip into his mind. He assumed they were remnants of his past but honestly he did not care much to look for more. In all his years of travel, there hadn’t been anyone who was as of yet able to identify him and Jaskier was quite comfortable with his current life, so he allowed his past to remain just that, the past. 

They spent a few more nights in Vizima. After all, the drug lord who had hired Geralt had paid quite handsomely and well, they both needed to recuperate a bit after this particular contract. Jaskier returned the cart to a grateful old man and Geralt and him spent the next few days mostly sleeping. 

When they finally got on the road again, Geralt insisted on training Jaskier on the use of the crossbow the bard hadn’t allowed to leave his side. After what had happened in the sewers he felt naked without a weapon. He supposed it could be trauma, but it was his trauma damn it and he gets to choose the coping mechanism. 

However, Jaskier was not particularly gifted at the crossbow like he had been at daggers and Geralt had to instruct him at length on how to aim it correctly, pay attention to wind patterns and eyesight. It was exciting to be learning something so different, so new. 

He began to follow Geralt around on contracts. For the first year or so while Jaskier was still a novice with his crossbow, Geralt outright refused to let Jaskier use it while he was fighting, insisting Jaskier was more likely to put a bolt through him than the beast. Then, once he got better, Geralt agreed that if there was ever an opening, Jaskier could take it. 

They settled into a routine. Geralt would get up close and dirty, using potions that would poison Jaskier’s human constitution to fight the assorted beasties across the continent. Jaskier would hand back quite a ways, watching the fights from a distance and writing down notes in his journals. If Geralt ever ended up in a losing battle, Jaskier would sometimes but rarely set down his notebooks and line up whatever shot he could make, incapacitating the beast long enough for Geralt to strike the killing blow.   
Of course, not every contract was a monster, sometimes it was a murderer or a string of disappearances and there would be more of an investigative component to the whole affair. Jaskier was more of a people person and would often be the one to gather information from the townspeople, always a friendly face. Geralt was better at talking to victims. He had a way of empathizing with them that made them feel heard, less victimized and more avenged. It was amazing to watch, especially since so often Geralt was gruff and closed off. 

The two of them would part ways in the Winter, Geralt going wherever Witchers went in the Winter, and Jaskier finding a court to settle down in. 

Now, however, it was just the beginning of the winter months and Geralt and he had yet to part ways. Perhaps it was the sheer amount of contracts or how Winter was a bit late this year, making it snow less and the cold bite a little less harshly. 

Whatever the reason, Geralt had found himself in Cintra on contract to hunt down a selkimore in the lake. Apparently it had decimated a nearby village and was coming a little too close to Cintra proper for comfort. 

Geralt had a plan, an insane plan granted but one that might just work. Jaskier didn’t know what he would do if Geralt’s plan was a failure. Perhaps go jumping after the selkimore himself?

He stood on the edge of the frozen lake, watching the Witcher slowly make his way into the center of the lake. The alderman stood beside Jaskier. 

“What is he doing?” The alderman said. 

“Trying to hunt down a selkimore,” Jaskier replied. 

The man’s face grew red, “I know that you imbecile,” he said, “I meant as to why the White Wolf is walking to the center of the lake.”

Jaskier really didn’t want to have to make conversation with this man and was saved from it by a loud cracking noise from the ice. A Selkimore shot out of the ice and for a terrible moment, he saw into its gaping mouth, its cavernous teeth and maw the size of a small house. Then, it swallowed Geralt whole. 

“By gods!” The alderman cried, “it has vanquished the White Wolf!”

Then he ran off, crying about the death of the White Wolf and Jaskier didn’t even have time to correct him. He looked back over to the lake and the water was still for a moment before a hulking beast shot out of the water. It’s side was bulging in an odd manner and just seconds later, a sword poked out of its side. In fact, the sword sliced clean through the side of the monster and Geralt began crawling out. 

The Selkimore had fallen close to shore so when Geralt hopped out of the beast’s belly, he was only up to his shins in the freezing water. Steam was coming off of him due to the temperature difference between the immense heat of the selkimore’s stomach and the freezing air outside. 

Jaskier himself was bundled up in a warm fur cloak and was carrying Geralt’s for good measure. He offered it to the Witcher with a smile, “Feeling a bit cold?” He asked. 

Geral glared at him, covered head to toe in Selkimore guts and turned away, grabbing his sword and walking back to the tavern.

“The alderman thinks you are dead!” Jaskier cried out after him.

“Then he will be quite surprised to see me alive to collect my payment,” Geralt said, trudging through the woods back into town. 

Jaskier hurried after him, “So, Geralt, darling, light of my life who absolutely should be paying me for my services?”

Geralt looked at Jaskier from the corner of his eyes, which honestly must be hard to see out of covered in guts and everything and sighed. 

He continued, uncaring, “Do you remember how I mentioned that I had been invited to perform at the court of Cintra?”

Geralt grunted.

“And do you remember how I may or may not have mentioned that this is a very important performance that could determine whether or not I could winter in the Cintran courts which would quite literally be one of the highest honors a bard could earn?”

Geralt stopped and looked full-on at Jaskier, a chunk of selkimore fell out of his hair and landed on the ground with a wet plopping sound. 

“What do you want,  _ bard _ ?” He growled out, clearly tired of Jaskier giving him the run-around. 

“Well, turns out there’s a number of people in the Cintran court who might have a bit of a problem with me. Sexually speaking that is. And I would really rather avoid a crime of passion during Princess Pavetta’s betrothal banquet.”

“How many people want to kill you in the Cintran Court for sleeping with their wives?”

“It’s not so much a matter of simply who I slept with but also who I didn’t sleep with as well. The Duchess of Redania can be a jealous woman. It’s not my fault her husband is such a catch. She was invited!”

“I already told you I’m not going.”

“Oh you are,” Jaskier said then they reached the inn where they were staying and Jaskier opened the door first to hear the Alderman saying, “The White Wolf is dead, valiantly killed trying to save us all!”

“Eh..he’s fine,” Jaskier said, stepping into the room. 

“You saw it with your own eyes,” the Alderman said, “He was swallowed whole!”

“I doubt it,” Jaskier repeated, stepping aside to reveal Geralt who smelled something truly awful. The Witcher walked into the room and up to the Alderman, glaring the man down. 

“I will take what I am owed now,” he said. 

Jaskier then started speaking, “Three cheers for the white wolf!!” 

He leaned over to the innkeeper, “Could we get a few different baths ordered to our rooms? I have the strangest feeling that smell isn’t just going to go away. 

While the people were still cheering and talking loudly, Jaskier walked back over to Geralt.

“I ordered you a bath. I highly recommend you use it. I will be heading to the tailors. I ordered an outfit for both you and myself.”

“Why would I need a new outfit?”

“For the banquet tonight of course!”

Geralt sighed once again, “I told you I’m not going.”

“And I’m telling you I deserve this once tiny favor after nearly a decade of pro-bono publicity. Now go wash us, I’ll be back!”

Jaskier left Geralt to find the room and clean up while he went to the tailor’s. He had ordered a gold outfit for himself, something flashy and classy. It suited him quite well he thought. Meanwhile, for Geralt he had gone with a nice black doublet with silver accents on the sleeves and a white shirt underneath. It wasn’t as if he would be able to hide who Geralt was, not unless he ordered the man a wig. He had actually just bought Geralt a new pair of black pants that he could wear with the outfit or for contracts. His old pair was getting a bit worn and well, this new pair of pants would frame Geralt’s ass wonderfully. 

Not that he spent too much time thinking about Geralt’s ass. He spent a normal amount of time, perfectly normal. 

He made his way back to the inn to find Geralt in the tub. He must have already gone through one round of water because there really weren’t many guts left on him. Jaskier set the clothes down on the bed. 

“And Jaskier returns!” He cried out. 

“You shouldn’t refer to yourself in the third person,” Geralt says.

“And you shouldn’t be so sullen about having to go to a banquet tonight,” Jaskier says, swinging a towel over his shoulder and go to the dresser to look over the bath salts and oil Geralt had of course refused to use.

“Food, women and wine Geralt, how could you refuse that?”

“People, places and things,” the Witcher replied, “my three enemies.”

“Oh don’t be like that, I know how much you love sticking your nose into other people's business.”

He threw a handful of salts into Geralt’s bath, “Don’t you wish to at least watch my triumphant performance!”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I get enough of that on the road.”

“Come on, this is a favor for your very best friend in the entire world.”

“Not my best friend,” Geralt replied. 

“And who is then? I suppose it’s Roach?”

“Perhaps.”

Jaskier threw up his hands, “Do you want to see me killed, Geralt?”

Geralt took a drink from the ale he was holding, “I already agreed, no need to fail into guilting me further.”

Well two could play at this game. Jaskier came and plucked the ale out of Geralt’s hand, “No more Cintran Ale for you, a clear head would be best for tonight.”

Geralt growled and that was all the warning he had before a hand was shooting out of the tub and grabbing Jaskier by the leg, tripping him up and causing him to crash to the ground. However, while a good portion of the remaining ale had landed on him, the mug itself had found its way back into the hands of the Witcher who drank the last few drops and dropped the mug onto Jaskier’s fallen body.

“I will not suffer tonight sober,” Geralt said. 

“I see that,” Jaskier said from his place on the floor. 

“And I am not going to kill anyone tonight either, I don’t get involved in the petty squabbles of man.”

Now Jaskier laughed, rolling so he was now sitting on the floor looking up at Geralt, “Except you do, all the time, every single place we go together. I believe you are physically incapable of staying uninvolved in the petty squabbles of man.”

Geralt leveled a glare at him and Jaskier smiled right back, “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous? Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?”

“Yes. When we get slow and get killed.”

Of course, Geralt’s shining optimism comes to the rescue. Jaskier kept his tone light, “Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this… monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing.”

“Well, who knows?” Jaskier crouched near the tub and looked over at Geralt, “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

In true fashion, Geralt remained stoic and broke eye contact, saying, “I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet…” Jaskier looked once more into Geralt’s eyes and the weight of the last decade hung between them, tying them together through long nights under the stars and talks over the fire, “here we are.”

Geralt looked away and was that a hint of red in his cheeks? Jaskier tilted his head to the side and smiled wistfully. Geralt was adorable when he pretended not to care. 

Jaskier stood up then, “I have your clothes for the banquet all laid out for you, don’t worry the old pair is getting washed. Luckily too, I heard selkimore guts are a bitch to clean out.”

A few hours later, Geralt, smelling like fresh chamomile and Jaskier, decked out in gold, stood at the entrance to Cintra’s banquet hall. 

“Now remember,” Jaskier said as they entered the room, “Any number of people here likely want to kill me so if you could stick by my side…”

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!” a man said. He walked over to the two of them and Jaskier could feel a strange energy coming off the man. Huh. He wondered what it was. 

“I haven’t seen you since the plague,” the man said, clapping Geralt on the back.

“Good times, Mousesack,” Geralt said with not even a hint of a smile.

“I’ve missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost.”

The man, Mousesack looked Geralt up and down taking in the silver and black doublet, “It appears time has treated you well.”

“Well, something certainly has,” Geralt said, looking over to Jaskier who held his hands up, protesting his innocence. 

Mousesack laughed, “Walk with me,” he said to Geralt who quickly obliged. 

Then Jaskier was left alone and isn’t this the one thing he asked Geralt not to do? Leave him alone? He tried to make his way towards the stage but was stopped rather quickly by a beautiful young woman with olive skin and brown hair. 

“You,” she growled out. 

“Ah, the beautiful Duchess of Redania,” Jaskier said, “and how is your husband?”

A dark-skinned man from behind her waved to Jaskier and he waved right back. 

The Duchess growled and he saw her fingering the sword at her side and Jaskier hadn’t so much as brought his crossbow to this banquet. 

“Just you wait little bard,” she said, “You will have to sleep sometime.”

Then she stalked off, grabbing her husband’s hand as they made their way to a table.

“Just remember my offer is always open,” Jaskier shouted to her back. 

Then he turned around again to find another man staring him down. 

“Something about you reminds me of a scoundrel I once saw fleeing my wife’s chambers!”

Fuck. He did not recognize this man but he looked behind him to see a beautiful blonde woman waving at him. Jaskier did recognize her. Fuck. 

“Um, well…” He stumbled, lost for words but then the lord said.

“Drop your trousers.”

“What?” Jaskier said in shock, was the man really that jealous of his wife?

The man sneered, “I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere.”

Now Jaskier felt rightfully offended. His ass was in fantastic shape, not a pimple in sight. He began to unbutton his pants in order to show the lord just wonder pimple-free his ass was when a hand landed on his shoulder. 

Jaskier looked behind him, “Ah, hello Geralt.”

Geralt leaned in close to Jaskier’s ear and whispered, “Somehow, Jaskier, I don’t think it would be wise to moon any lords in public.”

Then the Witcher straightened up, saying in a louder voice, “Forgive me, my lord. This… happens all the time. It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward. But, truth be known… he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

Jaskier let out a noise of offense. Excuse me? Was this some form of petty revenge for forcing Geralt into this banquet. Okay, this is definitely a form of revenge for forcing Geralt into this banquet. Well, at least it gave him an excuse.

“That’s absolutely true,” Jaskier said, leaning into the lie to avoid giving Geralt the satisfaction, “I try my best with what I am left with, but I’m afraid sleeping with any woman is quite off the agenda. Luckily I have one fantastic Witcher here to take care of my needs.”

Jaskier feels Geralt stiffen at his innuendo and the lord’s face goes red, looking Geralt up and down and then returning the look to Jaskier.

“Apologies,” the Lord says, looking fearfully at Geralt now, “I wish you both all the best, congratulations.”

The lord leaves and Jaskier immediately turns to Geralt, “Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.”

Geralt scoffs, “I saved your life. And as if you didn’t ruin my reputation in return. By daybreak, that lord will have everyone believing we are sleeping together.”

“Are you saying that sleeping with me would damage your reputation? If anything, being given the honor to bed me would only add to your accolades!”

“I find it amusing you seem to believe that.”

Jaskier puts a hand to his chest, “Geralt are you saying that sleeping with me would be a hardship?”

The Witcher’s face goes red and he turns away from Jaskier, saying brusquely, “You’re on your own from here on. Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.”

Then he is gone before Jaskier can fully process Geralt’s proclamation. Perhaps there was a little something underneath all their banter. He sighed, that would have to be examined another time. For now, he had a performance to prepare for. 

He made his way to the stage and watched as Queen Calanthe made quite an entrance, armor covered in blood and holding a sword above her head. Of course. 

She turned towards Jaskier, finishing her sentence, “...Bard, music”

He tries to play the opening to one of Geralt’s ballads but Calanthe shuts that down so he switches to playing a jaunty ballad which seems to have a better reception. 

Most of the banquet goes fairly well. That is, of course, until two lords begin arguing. Loudly, about a monster neither of them have ever met. Jaskier would know. 

Clearly, Calanthe is tired of the argument as well, she stands and shouts, “Enough! We have a renowned guest here tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.”

Oh great, Jaskier looks over to Geralt who was lounging against a pillar. He had a smirk on his face. That was not a good sign.

“Neither,” Geralt said, referring to who actually met a manticore.

One of the lords scowled at Geralt, “Are you calling me a liar, old man?”

Honestly, Geralt looked the man’s age. This was ridiculous. Jaskier hoped it wouldn’t end with one of the men’s heads on a pike.

The other lord laughed, “Aah. The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.”

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye and signals to please not kill either of these men Geralt I would really like to be invited back here, thank you. 

Geralt dropped his smirk a bit into a more pleasant smile, “Perhaps the lords encountered… rare subspecies of manticore.”

The lords both agreed and Calanthe laughed, “Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?”

Once again, Jaskier tried to signal to Geralt to stop but this time the Witcher elected to ignore him, “There was no slaying. I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.”

“But the song,” a lord groaned.

Jaskier was finally able to catch Geralt’s eyes, “Yeah, the song.”

Jaskier was cursing Geralt in his mind. That absolute idiot. Why don’t you go and tell them where the Elves can be found as well? Then perhaps Calanthe could go and massacre the civilization under Posada. 

Geralt continued, “At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat, I didn’t shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you, good lords. At your final breath, a shitless death.”

He raises a glass to the lord and Jaskier resists the urge to beat his own lute against his head. 

Geralts looks the lords all up and down and turns away, “But I doubt it.”

Great, thank you Geralt for your words of wisdom as always. The absolute life of the party. Jaskier practically wants to beat Geralt for his idiocracy but restrains himself. 

The Queen exchanges words with Eist of Skellige by her side then turns to Geralt and says, “Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for a far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher. Take a seat by my side while I change.”

Wonderful, now Geralt was sitting beside the queen. Gods, Jaskier hoped Geralt wouldn’t do anything else too stupid during the night. 

Unfortunately, this was not to be. In the middle of Fishmonger’s Daughter, there is a commotion at the door. Then a knight runs in, pushing aside the guards. 

He kneels before the throne and says, “Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Calanthe looks pissed as she speaks, “A knight… of no renown… from a backwater hamlet… who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?”

Jaskier backs away, hiding behind a pillar near the head table as Lord Urcheon replies.

“I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight’s oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell.”

Then Lord Eist walks over and pulls off the man’s helmet to reveal, well, whatever it is, it’s not human. It appears to be a man with the head of a hedgehog and there’s a gasp from around the room as Jaskier hears the shock from the crowd. 

Calanthe’s voice is trembling as she speaks, “Witcher, kill it.”

“No,” Jaskier whispers at the same time as Geralt though he does not know why. Suddenly he had a desire for a dagger, a crossbow, a sword. He looks around him and sees the suits of armor around the edges of the room. Jaskier creeps closer to one as Geralt continues to defy the Queen’s request. He sets down his lute. Why is he even moving for a sword? He’s never used one before. At least, he thinks he’s never used one before. 

He hears Geralt speak, “This knight has been cursed.”

Calanthe is angry, “You’re as useless as the rest of them.” She points to her guards, “Slay this beast!”

Lord Urcheon swings his own swords, disabling the guards as he cries out, “Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.”

However, the guards begin to overwhelm them and Jaskier is now pulling at the sword in the suit of armor’s hands. He wrenches it free with a screech of metal in time to see a guard going to slice the lord in half. 

“No!” The princess cries out but then Geralt is there, saving Lord Urcheon’s life. Calanthe stands up, pointing at the two of them.

“Kill them both!” She cries. 

Hearing that, something overtakes Jaskier. Suddenly his body is moving without his thoughts, separate somehow from the rest of him. He watches as his arms feel the weight of the sword in his hand, testing it for a moment. Then he sheds the restrictive doublet he is wearing, leaving for room for movement by wearing just his shirt and breeches. 

He catches a guard in the leg, slicing across quickly and sending them to the ground. A gust of air behind him and Jaskier is spinning once again, catching a guard’s sword with his own. For a moment, the guard looks at him in surprise, clearly recognizing him as the bard and Jaskier’s own eyes reflect the same confusion. He has honestly no idea how he is matching this guard blow for blow with his sword. 

But his body continues to react before his mind and disarms the guard and hits him in the head, sending him to the ground. Jaskier stays on the outskirts of the fight, stopping more guards from getting to the center where Duny and Geralt are fighting back to back. He thinks he sees Lord Eist fighting against assorted nobles as well but he cannot be sure. 

What the fuck is happening. Jaskier feels callouses he had forgotten were there on his hands as he holds the swords, feels unused but familiar muscles moving once more. He is having trouble remembering where he is. 

He watches, almost outside of himself, as he cuts down another guard. There is a rushing in his ears. Everything seems far too loud, too bright, too much. What’s happening to him?

Then the soldiers stop moving and Jaskier falls to his knees, gasping for breath. The Queen is calling for everyone to stop. 

Jaskier is slowly coming back to the present moment and whatever strange skills had overtaken him are leaving once more. The instincts are gone and the world is going back to tolerable. He drops the sword as the Princess rushes towards Lord Urcheon. 

“Duny,” she says, holding him close, “I told you to stay away.”

The knight looks up at the Queen and his voice carries in the silent room, “Your Majesty… the witcher speaks the truth. I was cursed as a young boy. My whole life was a living misery until the day that I saved your husband, King Roegner, from certain death. By tradition, I chose the law of Surprise as payment. Whatever windfall he came home to find… would be mine.”

Calanthe snarls, “Oh, the stupid bastard. Better you had let him die!”

However, now Geralt knows the truth and he turns on the Queen, “You knew he’d come, and you pushed me to kill him.”

She ignores his statement in favor of turning to her daughter, “And you… carousing with the beast that swindled your stupid father!”

Lord Eist appears at Calanthe’s side, “‘It is no swindle. Asking for payment with the Law of Surprise is as old as mankind itself.”

The Queen pushes him away, “Don’t lecture me, Eist.”

He continues to plead the case, “It's an honest gamble. As likely to be rewarded with a bumper crop as a newborn pup. Or… a child of surprise. He could not know. Destiny has determined the surprise will be Pavetta.”

The Knight speaks again, “When I heard that King Roegner had returned to find a child on the way… I abandoned all thought of claiming the Law of Surprise. I knew…. I knew no woman would ever accept me like this. And so I waited. I waited until the twelfth bell when the curse breaks. I never intended to meet her. Just to watch from afar.”

The princess is looking deep into his eyes now and Jaskier just knows they will not be parted. There is a strange energy in the air again, a feeling he can almost taste. “Until destiny intervened… and our hearts collided.”

“And at dawn, I awoke with her in my arms and me… like this,” Duny says.

Eist turns to Calanthe, “Who are we to challenge destiny? Life was saved, the debt must be paid, or the whole order of the world falls apart.”

Mousesack, the Druid of the court Jaskier now knows, moves to speak, “Honor destiny’s wish, or unleash its wrath upon us.”

The Queen does not heed his warning, “There is no us. I bow to no law made by men who never bore a child! Is there not a man amongst you who does not cower before destiny? You, Witcher… who has known monsters of every fang and claw… are you afraid too?”

Jaskier moves to speak but stops himself. Why would he feel the need to speak? He has no place in this conversation. Geralt is talking now, “No. I’ve seen mothers lash themselves raw over the death of a child, believing they crossed destiny, ignoring the stench of the 50 other children in the plague cart outside. Destiny… helps people believe there’s an order to this horseshit. There isn’t. But a promise made must be honored. As true for a commoner… as it is for a queen.”

Clearly the princess is happy with this man as she says, “I love Duny, Mother. I will marry him. I will finally be free.”

The queen turns away, putting her sword in the hands of Eist but there is something further in the air, “Here is your destiny,” the Queen cries before trying to plunge a dagger into Duny’s throat.

“NO!” the princess screams and then everything is awash in white. Pavetta’s eyes begin to glow and she rises into the air alongside Duny. There is wind whipping around the room and Jaskier, had he not already been sitting, would have likely been blown back from the force of it. He had a headache forming now and as strange as it may seem he can feel the magic in the air. 

Geralt and Mousesack raise their hands and chant something in Elder that causes Pavetta to stop her maelstrom of magic. 

Calanthe seems shocked and she whispers to herself for a moment before speaking up to the banquet hall, “Destiny has spoken! And I have listened. The Law of Surprise will be honored. Pavetta will marry… Lord Urcheon.”

Eist stands at her side, saying, “React poorly and you won’t just face the Lioness, you will be facing the sea hounds of Skellige. Because Queen Calanthe has… agreed to my proposal of marriage.”

The Queen looks over in surprise but then a rare smile crosses her face, “There will be two vows here tonight! I assume that’s agreeable.” Everyone nods, too shocked to do anything else, “Delightful.”

Jaskier is now overcoming his previous shock himself and is searching wildly for a paper and something to write with. Fuck. He had put those in the doublet. Which he had for some reason cast aside while he was...fighting the guards? He rolled those past few minutes over in his head. That was beyond strange and not like him at all. He didn’t even know he could yield a sword. 

He supposed he would have to remember this as best he could for now and write it down later. 

The Queen was standing with Eist and across from them was Pavetta and Duny. She wrapped a blue scarf around their hands.

“Pavetta. Duny,” she said, “With my blessing… I thee bind.”

When they kiss, Duny falls to the ground and when he arises once more he is human. Jaskier, along with most of the assembled crowd, gasps in shock. 

“The twelfth bell has not yet rung,” Pavetta says.

“What has happened?” Calanthe demands.

“I think your blessing of this marriage has fulfilled a destiny,” Mousesack says, “The curse has been lifted.”

Everyone cheers and Jaskier stands to his feet. He is looking on the floor for his misplaced jacket when Geralt comes up behind him, holding the golden doublet. 

“I believe this is yours,” Geralt says, a soft smile on his face.

“Oh thank you so much Geralt!” Jaskier says, “I need to write this down at once, this is going to make an amazing ballad!”

“And are you going to include you attempting to fight the royal guards?” Geralt asks with a smirk.

Jaskier blushes, “Well, no I-”

Geralt cuts him off, “I didn’t know you could even hold a sword much less fight with one.”

“Probably something I’ve picked up from following a Witcher around for a decade.”

“I should be going,” Geralt says, “It has been a very long night.”

He looks at Jaskier, “Don’t get yourself killed by putting your sausage in the wrong royal pantry.”

Geralt turns to leave but Duny calls out after him, “No, Wait! Wait. You saved my life. I must repay you.”

“You've proven yourself to be the kind of man who would do the same,” Geralt says, shrugging, “I want nothing.”

Still, the knight, soon to be prince, persists, “No, please. Please, Geralt of Rivia, do not feel like you’re doing me a service. I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life debt.”

Geralt sighs, “Fine. I… claim the tradition as you have, the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.”

The Queen pulls her sword out immediately and cries, “NO! What have you done, Witcher?”

Geralt smiles, “Fear not, Your Majesty, if I’m seen in your kingdom again, it’ll be to kill a real monster, not lay claim to a crop or a new pup. Destiny can go fu-,”

His condemnation of destiny was cut off by Pavetta vomiting on the floor and Jaskier watches as Geralt pales, realizing exactly what he may have just earned. 

The queen crouches down next to her daughter, “Pavetta? Are you…? Oh…”

Geralt looks at the scene, comes to the same conclusion as the Queen. Pavetta is pregnant. And it will be his child-surprise, “Fuck,” he says and then leaves the room quickly. 

Mousesack hurries after Geralt and the Queen shouts, “Out! Everyone! Out!”

Then all the assorted nobles and guards leave until there is only Pavetta, Calanthe, Duny and Eist left in the room. Jaskier is hovering in the doorway. Pavetta is still on the ground, she hasn’t gotten up. Something is wrong. Jaskier knows something is wrong but he can’t put his finger on what. 

Calanthe stops him then, “What are you doing bard? OUT!”

Jaskier feels the same strange feeling as earlier overtake him and he is walking forward, towards Pavetta. 

“Geralt rejected his child-surprise,” he hears himself say. 

Pavetta spits up a mouthful of blood and Calanthe goes to cradle her head. That must be the only thing stopping the Queen from killing him then and there. 

Jaskier crouches down and touches Pavetta’s head, saying words he doesn’t fully understand, “I claim my role as Geralt of Rivia’s regent in the law of surprise until such a time as he is able to take up the duties himself.”

A white glow washes over Pavetta and color, well as much color as the pale princess ever had, returns to her cheeks. She sits up and looks over at Jaskier. 

“Thank you,” she begins to say but Calanthe cuts her off, dagger at his throat.

“What the fuck was that  _ bard _ .” 

Jaskier scrambles back and stands up, “I, I don’t know,” he says and means it honestly. He had no idea why he just said that but it seemed to stabilize Pavetta. 

The Queen is still threatening him, coming to her feet as well, “I will not have my future granddaughter become some kind of brood-mare for a Witcher once she is of age. He cannot take her hand in marriage.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose, not every law of surprise ends in marriage but he sees how Calanthe might believe so, only having Pavetta and Duny as an example, “Geralt would never require that,” he says. 

“And you know this Witcher so well?” the Queen says, “A man who abandons his duty so easily?”

Now Jaskier sees there would be no way for Geralt to win with Calanthe. If he had stayed, she likely would have had him executed and if he was here she would see him as simply waiting for the day the child was of marriageable age. Which of course, was not something Geralt would ever consider, but he supposed Calanthe wouldn’t know that. 

Then Mousesack runs into the room, slightly winded, “The Witcher is gone,” he says, “is Pavetta’s condition still stable?”

Pavetta nodded, standing up and dusting off her dress, “I am fine, Mousesack,” she says, “this bard did...something that must have saved my life.”

The druid looks him over, “Did you claim regency?”

“I think I did,” Jaskier replies.

“And what,” Calanthe said, “Does that mean?”

Mousesack began to speak, “It means that when Geralt left, magic took it as a rejection of his child-surprise, meaning destiny attempted to take away the gift it had given him by taking away either Pavetta, the child or both. However, by this bard claiming regency he is able to act in Geralt’s stead.”

“So you are informing me that my daughter’s life is now dependent on this idiotic bard?”

“If he hadn’t stepped if your daughter might be dead,” Mousesack said. 

Calanthe looked at Jaskier, “Does he have to be kept alive?”

“At least through the birth, and if he can stay here that would be preferable.”

Jaskier tried to look as welcoming as possible, “I was looking for a court to winter in, Queen Calanthe, Jaskier the bard at your service.”

He held out his hand but she refused to take it. However, Dunny grasped his hand and shook it proudly, “Duny, well, now I suppose I’m human so I can properly introduce myself. I am a Prince of Maecht, son of Akerspaark.”

“Pavetta, please, there is no need to call me by any titles, you saved my life.”

Jaskier inclined his head to her, “Thank you, Pavetta, Duny.”

Calanthe scoffed but said, “You may stay here, but refer to me only as Queen Calanthe. I don’t want a common bard like you getting any ideas.”

Jaskier was sent off for the night and Mousesack was instructed to find him some rooms in the Castle. He was still in a bit of shock. This was certainly one way to find a court to spend the Winter in. 

Mousesack led him down the halls. 

“How did you know to claim regency?” the Druid said. 

Jaskier shrugged, “I honestly don’t fully know. It felt right.”

Mousesack laughed, “It felt right. Of course. And you have no training in magic. You know, I would have claimed regency if you hadn’t. Of course, I am not going to tell the Queen that. She would have you killed on the spot. Ah, here we are.”

Jaskier was led into a modest set of rooms and turned back to Mousesack, “Thank you for not having me killed.”

Mousesack waved, “It was nothing, you seem like a kind sort. And anyone who dresses Geralt well is someone to be admired.”

“I hope he gets out okay.”

“I watched Geralt run out of here so fast, he’s likely in Temeria by now. I’m sure he will be fine.”

Then Jaskier was left alone to his thoughts. He mulled the night over. How had he known how to fight? To use that sword as an extension of his own arm? How had he known how to claim regency of the law of surprise? That was advanced magic. Jaskier had no talent at chaos, he had tried but it seemed he had some buried knowledge of magic, some vague sense of it. 

He normally tried to ignore his mysterious past but it seemed that it was coming up to greet him far too quickly and rapidly. He worried about the man he might have been and Jaskier wasn’t completely sure he wanted to remember. What if he had been a completely different person? What if everything he was would be washed away by his past? The thought terrified him and he tried desperately to push it out of his mind. 

Staying in the castle was an experience in and of itself. He performed bardly duties of course, but honestly had the strange position of also being close with the royal family. 

Mousesack had determined that Pavetta was around a month or two pregnant so Jaskier would be staying in Cintra well into the summer months. He hoped Geralt would be alright without him there. It wasn’t as if Geralt would be coming to Cintra anytime soon. 

He had access to the royal library and made full use of it. He often found himself reading alongside Pavetta who had a passion for her studies and as he later found out, music. She loved the arts but Calanthe had discouraged those hobbies, saying they would give her poor health. 

It was practically a slap in the face to Calanthe’s values that they now had a live-in bard but the Queen adored her daughter and if having Jaskier around kept her daughter safe, she would endure.

Many nights, Jaskier found himself in Pavetta and Duny’s rooms, reading poetry with Pavetta and teaching her to play the lute or discussing matters of the state with Duny. 

They were an odd pair, the two of them. Duny definitely had a darker side he refused to show in public. He was ruthless with a wit as quick as any whip and a sarcastic bite to most of his statements. The prince had ambitions and he loved to describe his thoughts to Jaskier when he could. 

“There is so much bloodshed today, Jaskier,” Duny said one night, “The Elder races are being slowly exterminated and no one is doing anything about it.”

Jaskier nodded, “I’ve seen it first hand, elves are chased to mere shadows of the kingdoms they once had.”

“It’s not just the elves,” Duny said passionately, “It’s the Dwarves barricading themselves in Mahakam to avoid losing their autonomy, it’s the werebubbs living off the dwarves’ land yet not having anything of their own. It's every halfing and gnome who can’t go into cities for fear of persecution. They are the oldest races on the continent, their knowledge and skills are invaluable yet we turn them away!”

“I suppose you’ve talked to Calanthe about it?” Jaskier had said.

Duny laughed, “Of course not, she would sooner slaughter every nonhuman than listen to a single word out of their mouths. It disgusts me.”

“Where did you get these ideas,” Jaskier said, “No leaders in the North are favorable to the Elder races.”

“I am rather well-read,” Duny said and then Pavetta joined into the conversation. 

“That’s how we met,” she said. By this point she was several months pregnant and was fully used to listening to Duny’s rant about the state of failure Cintra was in. Honestly, were it not for the love Duny held for Pavetta Jaskier would be worried about Duny attempting a coup. 

“I remember,” Duny said to her with a smile.

“I was reading poetry in the woods,” Pavetta said, “when this hedgehog comes out of the bushes and begins reciting poetry right back at me.”

“You were so surprised you nearly lost your book,” Duny says. 

“A reasonable reaction,” Jaskier joins in.

He hadn’t had close friends like this in a long time. With Geralt it was different, there was always the next adventure, the next quest. They didn’t sit around and simply talk about their lives. Moments between them were shared and sacred. With Pavetta and Duny it felt like he was sitting at home with family, catching up on their lives. 

There wasn’t any beast to kill or monster to take down. However, in all their months together, Calanthe never quite warmed to Jaskier. 

When Pavetta was finally ready to give birth, the castle had been preparing for months. Duny looked about ready to faint and the midwife was in the room alongside Calanthe and Mousesack who was muttering spells under his breath. 

Jaskier stood outside the room, waiting. He would occasionally go in and bring the others water and watch as Duny held Pavetta’s hand and Calanthe smiled down at her daughter and the labor was not particularly long. 

It lasted perhaps three hours and in the end, Pavetta was holding a child with the bluest eyes, cooing over how adorable she was. 

The baby was passed around, Calanthe informing her child of all the lands she would conquer and Duny doing the same. Mousesack said she would be as bookish as her mother. Eist told her that she would become the most beautiful girl in the lands and then it was Jaskier’s turn. 

He started, he hadn’t even considered that he would be included in this scene and he held the baby with trepidation. She was so small. She didn’t as of yet have any hair on her head and Jaskier wondered if it would be dark like father or white like her mother. Her blue eyes blinked up at Jaskier and her mouth opened and closed, but she didn’t yet scream. She was so small and he cradled her head gently. 

“She’s going to be a hero,” Jaskier said, “She’s going to be the kind of hero people remember for centuries to come. This little one is something special.”

He then handed her back to Pavetta and curled the child up to her breast. 

“Do you have a name?” Eist asked and Pavetta nodded.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” She said. 

“The lion cub of Cintra,” Calanthe added. 

And little Cirilla blinked her blue eyes that already had a hint of green to them up at the assembled group and Jaskier simply knew she was going to be great. 

* * *

It had been ten years but Deidre was finally about to pass her final trials and become a mage in the eyes of Zerrikania. Her hair had grown out, long, passing to her back now and tattoos covered almost every inch of skin outside of her neck and face. 

No one had told her what the final trials were to be but Deidre knew that some did not make it out alive. However, what she learned in this final trial would be enough to bring Renfri back, she knew it. 

Saulrenith led Deidre to a cave. 

“This is where we part ways,” Saulrenith said, “The final test is in there. Pass it, and you will be able to bring your love back and learn the true meaning of chaos. Fail, and she will remain trapped.”

Then the Priestess was gone and Deidre was left, standing at the open mouth of the cave, oddly reminiscent of when she had first come to the Cult of the Divine Dragons, begging for help. 

She entered the cave slowly, prepared for just about anything. She had not been allowed to bring any weapons with her or use any magic. The cave was silent but sloped downward. Deidre could make out a slight golden glow coming from within. 

The small cave opened to a large cavern filled with gold and jewels. All were magnificent and practically called for her to touch them. Perhaps there was an artifact of magic here that could save Renfri, perhaps the truth was in this cave. She shook her head. No, this was a distraction. She moved past the piles of gold into another cavern, this one holding a large pool. 

The water shimmered with a blue glow and she walked towards it, leaning into its glowing waters. 

“I see you have made it here,” a voice said behind her and Deidre jumped, spinning around, barely remembering not to call any magic to her hands. 

What she saw stopped her in her tracks. A massive golden dragon stood in front of her, its scales gleaming in the dim glow of the cave. Of course, she knew the worship of dragons was tantamount to the cult but he had never assumed dragons still lived among them. Especially golden dragons. They were supposed to be long dead. 

Deidre’s training kicked in and she bowed low, “Thank you great one for your blessing of chaos and the knowledge we have been gifted.”

The dragon chuckled, “I love meeting Zerrikanian mages. So polite.”

Deidre stayed silent and the dragon continued, “If you wish to pass the final test you must determine why you wish to know chaos, why you wish to call it to you. Look into the pool and know.”

So she leaned towards the water, seeing her reflection so clearly. There was a rustle of movement as the dragon walked towards her and then Renfri felt a sharp push of a talon to her back and she was falling, falling into the deep waters of the pool. 

Her eyes opened. Deidre was no longer in a cave but in a world of lights and sound, everything happening around her all at once. A veil before her, moving, shifting, colors that had existed but no longer were and thoughts that will be but are not yet. A moving mass of chaos that separated our world and the world of chaos. She felt it. She felt how mages pulled at the magic, tearing the veil, making it weaker, she saw the places where the viel bulged out, coming to the call of mages and the slow and steady weakening of the veil it caused. 

Deidre saw herself opening a door to the world of magic, of inviting it to herself and how chaos sprang across the veil into her hands, the veil not moving at all. 

W̬̫͎͕͓͛̋ͭ͊͞h͔̫̻̆̎ͫ̍͡y͍̤̹̰͖ͦ͂͆̌̚ ̼̬̝̳͖̜͈ͯͭ̎d̎̅ȯ͘ ̻͊̿̚y͈͊̀ͬ̇ͩ̕o̭̬̜͎̪̟ͩ̆̌̂u̫̦̰͇̫̲͙ͤͬ́ͪ̕ ̯̟̝̪͖̜̔͟w̮͒̏̓͛ͣ͡ȉ͗̽̽s̗̍̉h͔͖̜͇̥͑͑ͣ̈̓̀̚̕ ͖̫t͕̪͙̖̥ͥͅo̘͕͙̱͖ ̥͉̝̫͖͐̃̒̊̃͡kͩ͑̀̋͢n̡͉̪̟o̵̼͉̹̼͉͕͌ͅw̡͆ͣ?̰͎

  
  


Something echoed through this plane of non-existence. It sounded everyone and nowhere, whispering in her ear and shouting in her mind. Deidre was shaking. 

“I want to save Renfri,” she said. It was her mantra, her reason for going on.

W̛̯̼͙͖̳̰ͮͅh͉͎̟ͅạ͌̑̑̏ͫ̀̋t̳̗̱͙̰̘̪̅ ̡͈̩̪͚ͮẇ̸̥̬͙̯͖̻̊̈́̓ȍ̖̹̘̬̘̹͈̈́̐́̔̿ͮu͍l̩̖͕̱̟̏ͤͬ̾̆͒́ͅd̯̻͍̼ͬ͗̋́͝ ̶̥̬͙̩̓̎͗͒ͧͤ̚ͅy̡͎̜̞̒ô̤ͧ̋ͧͭ̕u̘͖͖̤̠͂ͦ̉̀̚ ̷̠̼̪̥͍̗̤̅͒̀̍ͨ͐g̹̃i͈̹͔̩̝̳̺̍̀v̤͕̺͕̗̚e̤̯̪͗ͤͭ̓̒ͣ̄?͕̬̏̈́͜

  
  


The same voice spoke again and this time Deidre felt her very bones shake with it’s words. 

“Anything,” she whispered and then the voice spoke one final time.

V͚̦̳͖̣͉̻͗̿̈̒́ͦe̞̰̜̩ͦ͗r̻̹̞̫̰̫̒̓̾ͮy͇̬͈̦̦̺̌̽͘ ̦̜̖̭̭͚̈́͂̈̏̆͗̉w̜̯͎̯̥ͣ̈͞ȩ̖͒̂̑ͭ͐ͫͮl̴͉̯̦̮̮͚͆ͭͩ̂̍͂l͓̰̜ͦ͒̔

Then Deidre knew only pain, her body burning like it was on fire and then she was breathing in water. She was back in the pool. She kicked her legs up and flung herself onto the edge of the pool, gasping. 

The dragon looked down at her. 

“Congratulations,” they said, “You are now a master of magic.”

Deidre stood up. She knew what she had to do now. Renfri could be saved. She felt the magic in the air around her, more clearly now that ever before. There were imperfections in the fabric of their world, little folding pockets. You could use those to slip between, to travel from one place to the next. It wasn’t the bastardized portaling mages used but something simpler, more subtle. 

In one breath Deidre was staring at the golden dragon, in the next she was in front of Renfri’s body. In a trance-like state, Deidre waved her hand and Renfri dropped into her waiting arms. 

All she could think was, I know what to do now, I know what to do.

She began holding her hands above Renfri’s chest, removing the preservation spell and watching as the blood began to flow from Renfri’s chest. Then, Deidre began to move her arms and the blood stopped. Then as if reverse time itself the blood began to leave Renfri’s clothes and return into her body, the wound closing, healing, healing. Then, there was just a patch of clear skin that once held a bloody wound. 

Then Deidre’s left side began to burn. It felt as though the very skin was being stripped from it, piece by piece and then it was over. The skin on her left side felt tender, painful but still Deidre crawled over to Renfri as she opened her brown eyes.

“D-Deidre?” Renfri called out, her voice still weak, “What...what happened?”

“You were in Blaviken, you were dying, I…..saved you Renfri,” Deidre said then she turned fully to her and Renfri gasped in shock, sitting up and covering her mouth with her hands.

“Deidre what happened to you?” Renfri asked. 

Deidre put her hand to the left side of her face and felt the flesh underneath. It felt cold and unyielding. Then she looked in the ice and saw her reflection and had to muffle a scream. Her entire left side now resembled a corpse. Her hair had turned white and her eye milky, the skin was grey and patches of bones shone through. She looked like a corpse yet the right side of her body was untouched. Half of her was still blonde and rosy cheeked and the other a walking corpse. 

“Oh great dragons,” Deidre said, “This must have been the price to bring you back.”

“You did all of this,” Renfri said, “For me?”

“I couldn’t lose you again,” Deidre said, “I couldn’t let you go.”

Then Renfri, on her knees, raised up Deidre’s head, taking in the tears streaming out of her right eye and said, “You will never have to lose me again,” and then she kissed her, not caring of her dead flesh or the years between them. They were together. They would be fine. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS A WILD GODDAMN RIDE FOR ME. I loved the little Geraskier references and also somehow I have invested myself so much in the Rendre relationship even though it never existed in canon AT ALL. It's fine, it is as it is I guess. This is what happens when you combine Norse myth/Fullmetal Alchemist/Avatar to make a scene. Romance and heartbreak and DRAGONS. 
> 
> And yeah I think it would be fair of Calanthe to jump to the completely wrong conclusions very quickly. She probably thought the law of surprise was only romantic. 
> 
> Also having Jaskier becomes friends w/ Pavetta and Duny was NOT in the plans but hey it happens. Also, I do not fully know what they are doing with Duny in the tv show so this is really based on book Duny and EVERYTHING that entails (you'll see more on that next chapter...)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier tells a bedtime story and meets a sorceress.

“Story! Story!” A small blonde girl said, leaping onto Jaskier’s lap. Her loose white curls hung in disarray around her head and was still wet from the bath. 

Pavetta waved tiredly at Jaskier as she came into the room and Duny said nothing, preferring to collapse onto a chair near the fire. The Prince’s armor was half off and he looked exhausted. Pavetta came over to Jaskier and whispered into his ear so the little blighter on his lap couldn’t hear, “Ciri was quite a handful today, would you mind putting her to bed?”

Jaskier chuckled a bit. It was the end of the winter months and today Pavetta and Duny had taken Ciri on a Winter Hunt. It looks like Ciri’s boundless energy had exhausted both her parents. Of course, she was three years old now and seemed to have endless questions with little satisfaction for any answer. 

He had wintered at Cintra every year since Ciri was born. Of course, Calanthe wanted no one knowing that the bard staying at Cintra every winter was the bard of the White Wolf, so he went by Dandelion while at Cintra and changed his outfits up just a bit. His looks were unremarkable enough he was never recognized. When Geralt and himself split ways in the fall, he would head to Cintra and Geralt would head to Kaer Morhen. After all these years of travel, Geralt had finally confided in him by telling him about the Wolf Witcher’s keep and had in fact invited him, but alas Jaskier had his own responsibilities or rather, Geralt’s responsibilities in Cintra in so he always declined. Not that he ever told Geralt the reason. 

While the Witcher hadn’t shown it, Jaskier’s rejection had taken a bit of a toll on their friendship and Geralt had closed off just a bit more. The flirting and banter had slowed and now the Witcher was just a little harsher. Jaskier would tell him why he couldn’t go with him, but he feared that would only drive Geralt further away. Jaskier hadn’t even brought up the Child Surprise but even looking at children on their adventures would stiffen Geralt’s spine. 

Therefore, Jaskier had taken it upon himself to stand in Geralt’s place. He spent his winters in Cintra’s court, playing music, composing, entertaining, and most importantly playing bard to one small princess. Ciri loved having him around and honestly with a child like that Duny and Pavetta needed all the help they could get. There was no evidence one way or another if she had the gift like her mother, but every member of the castle was on the lookout. 

Jaskier scooped up Ciri and brought her over to the bed she slept on, tucking her in and letting her snuggle up to his side. Over by the fire, Pavetta and Duny were resting now, Duny already half asleep on Pavetta’s shoulder. She looked over to him, her green eyes flickering with the shadows from the fire and winked at him. 

He looked down at Pavetta’s almost carbon-copy lying down next to him and felt a tug on his shirt. 

“Story Jask, story!” Ciri said. 

Jaskier cleared his throat and thought of which story to tell her. He made the up as he went along, and Ciri was always enraptured, tales of Elven cities and fortresses by the ocean, of mages and quests of princesses and dwarves. She loved them all and some nights when Ciri was full of energy even this late, a story from Jaskier was the one thing that could get her settled down and asleep. 

“It begins in the Aspen woods. There is a girl in the woods, the villagers say, don’t come close or she will take you away. The girl has always been there, and she thinks she always will be until a little bird comes to set her free.”

“For this girl is not of humans but of wolves. She runs with them, lives with them, feeds with them. Somedays, her two legs feel wrong and she longs for the blanket of fur covering her family. They respect her and care for her, the wolves, and as the girl grows so does her command of her wolf family. She sheds her human titles and takes on the name the Wolf-Princess. Her days are spent frolicking in the woods, avoiding the arrows of hunters and drinking from clear streams. She was left there by her father, who said he would return but he hasn’t. She fears he is lost forever but a small part of her hopes. Now, she is lonely and wants to explore the world, her wolfpack is not enough. However, she cannot, the hunters around her forest prevent her from leaving.”

Ciri is staying up at him, her eyes widened in interest. Jaskier mentally apologizes to Pavetta for the mimicry of a wolf-princess little Ciri is likely to play out in the next few days. 

“Until one day, when she hears a noise in her woods. It is not hunters, the footfalls are too gentle and kind for that. Instead, it is a bird, a little bird who talks to the Wolf-Princess and tells her that she can help her escape. The little bird knows how to avoid the hunters and can bring the Wolf-Princess to wherever she would like to travel. She is hesitant at first, she has never left her forest before and the hunters have shaped her perception but she remembers her loneliness, her longing to travel so the Wolf-Princess agrees.”

“As they leave the forest, a few of her most trusted wolves alongside her, she asks the little bird, is there anyone else like me? Wolves on two legs with no claws? The bird laughs and tells the Wolf-Princess that she can take her to the Wolves-on-two-legs. They live far away, high up on a mountain-top where they craft their claws of silver and steel. The Wolf-Princess asks to be taken to them at once but the bird warns that it is a difficult journey and the Wolf-Princess would have to fight the hunters to get there. Wouldn’t it be easier? The little bird asks, for the Wolf-Princess to simply sneak by the hunters and forget about the Wolves of silver and steel? The Wolf-Princess refuses and tells the birds that it is better to fight and find your home then run forever alone.”

“Their journey is long and the path treacherous, and the little bird was right. The Wolf-Princess had to fight the hunters, and there were times she came close to losing her fight. But she continued onward, the promise of true family close at hand. When the little bird and the Wolf-Princess reached the mountain-top they were tired, so tired, their eyes simply wanted to close and their heads craved for rest.”

Ciri was beginning to fall asleep, her eyes drooping so Jaskier began speaking softer, slower, the story was coming to an end anyway.

“The Wolf-Princess and the little bird reached the top of the mountain and there was a doorway. Arched and made of stone, set right into the top of the mountain. The little bird told the Wolf-Princess she could go no further and beyond that door was the Wolves of Silver and Steel. The Wolf-Princess promised the little bird they would find each other again and then she passed through the door. There she found the keep of the wolves of silver and steel. They were protectors and had been for many years but they were feared, oh so feared. However, this Wolf-Princess, a child still in their long-lived eyes, came into their home with little fear. Then, across the room, a familiar face arose and the Wolf-Princess cried tears of joy. Her long-lost father was here, a Wolf of silver and steel, waiting for her to find him someday. They reunited on that mountain top, and some say they are still there, protectors of the meek with claws of silver and steel.”

Ciri is asleep now, her small head resting on Jaskier’s side and Pavetta comes over, helping him to gently untangle them so Jaskier can leave without disturbing Ciri. 

“Thank you,” she says, leading Jaskier over to the fire when Pavetta and Duny sit on one loveseat across from him. 

“I love to tell stories, it is quite literally my profession.”

Her eyes are soft, “I hope we aren’t just a profession to you, Jaskier.”

“Never,” he says, and it’s true. Pavetta and Duny were some of his closest friends and Ciri, well, she was one of the most precious things in the world to him. He wished Geralt could meet her. He would love her, Jaskier just knew it. 

Duny sat up, his eyes meeting Jaskier’s, “Don’t think I didn’t notice the references to Witchers you slipped in, ‘claws of silver and steel’ not exactly subtle are we?”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle, Duny. I was trying to introduce Ciri to the idea of Witchers, might I remind you I am a regent, not the actual bearer of the child-surprise?”

“You don’t let us forget it,” Duny said and leaned back again, “I don’t think it’s unwise. In many, it is a rather good idea. We can’t protect her forever. She will soon have to protect herself.”

Pavetta laid a hand on Duny’s leg, “We will protect her,” the Princess said, “Don’t forget that.”

Duny nodded, “She’s already exhausting and she can barely string two full sentences together, can you imagine once she gains stronger eloquence?”

“She’ll be a tyrant in her own right,” Jaskier said. 

“Especially if she has her mother’s gift of magic,” Duny agreed. 

Pavetta shook her head, “We would have known by now, surely?”

“You didn’t know about yours until you were eighteen and married Duny,” Jaskeir pointed out. 

“I am nearly certain she has the gift,” Duny said, “It’s simply a matter of it manifesting.”

“Would you suggest we train her then?” Pavetta asked. She herself had decided no to train her chaos, and instead simply learned to control it and nothing more. Jaskier wondered if she held apprehension about training Ciri. 

Meanwhile, Duny had a hungry look Jaskier had seen all too often when he began speaking on matters of ambition, “We ought to. Ciri could be very powerful indeed, it would be a shame to waste her talents. She could come to rule all you know.”

Pavetta rolled her eyes, “Rule all, yes, of course. Out daughter will unite the continent. Let’s stick to Cintra for now dear? Set more realistic expectations until she turns ten at least.”

Jaskier laughed but noticed Duny didn’t join in. The prince was like this, sometimes. He had ideas, plans, that Jaskier was not privy to and sometimes it made him wonder what exactly Duny was cooking up in his head. 

“Well, I should be off for the night, I plan to leave for a few days for the bardic competition in Novigrad, remember? Lots of preparation.”

Duny shook himself out of his thoughts and stood up, “Of course, of course,” he said, walking with Jaskier over to the doors of their family rooms, “We’ll see you when you return?”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude too much on your family time.”

“Nonsense,” Pavetta said from behind, “You are Ciri’s Jaskier, the only reason we can get her to sleep some-nights, trust me we require your presence for purely selfish reasons.”

“If that is the case, then I will return with plenty of stories for Ciri and perhaps even more music lessons for you Pavetta.”

Jaskier turned to Duny, “For you, I will come with a mind ready to listen for whatever complex political plan you’ve thought of in the week we’ve been apart.”

Duny smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile, it reminded Jaskier of the smiles Geralt would give in the heat of battle. 

“I’m sure I will have thought of plenty,” he said and then turned away and the door began to shut as Jaskier walked back to his rooms. He had hardly walked two steps when a hand shot out from an alcove and dragged him into it. 

He looked over. Fuck. it was Calanthe. She was holding a dagger to his neck and while this was not an uncommon occurrence, Calanthe got a kick out of the fact that Jaskier was trained in the crossbow and daggers and regularly challenged him to matches he almost always lost, there was an extra dash of murder in her eyes tonight. 

“I heard your little story tonight, _bard_ ,” the queen said, venom dripping off her voice. “Is that your plan then? Kidnapping my granddaughter and whisking her off to a Witcher in the night?”

Jaskier tried to talk but Calanthe’s hand still covered his mouth. He motioned at her hand and she looked down before scowling and lifting it off. 

“I’m not trying to take Ciri anywhere. She’s perfectly happy with her parents. I simply think it might be a good idea to inform of the Witcher her destiny is irrevocably tied to.”

“Destiny this, destiny that, clearly destiny doesn’t give a fuck as it has been nearly three years and not a word from the Witcher. I know you still travel with him. Do you tell him news of his child-surprise?”

“I do no such thing, I promised you I am not going to...groom Cirilla for Geralt.”

Jaskier was honestly offended Calanthe seems to believe such a thing but he would simply try and do his best to continue proving her wrong.

She drew the knife away, “Be sure you never do, I have come to tolerate your presence and my daughter would be most displeased if I had to kill you.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “I can see the affection in your eyes as you hold the knife to my throat.’

They stepped out into the main hallway and saw a servant’s eyes widen as he saw the two of them stepping out of an alcove in disarray. The servant quickly walked away.

Calanthe sighed and Jaskier said, “Should I go to inform Eist of the passionate affair he'd heard about me having with his wife?”

“If Eist believes such rumors,” Calanthe says, “he is not fit to be married to me. As if I would ever lie with the likes of you.”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said, moving away from Calanthe, “I’m sure I could you somehow.”

“On the day that Cintra falls,” the Queen replied. 

“On that day, our coupling will be glorious,” Jaskier said, quickly running down the hallway to avoid the slash of Calanthe’s dagger. 

The next morning, Jaskier was packed and ready to head to Novigrad. He had gained plenty of fame as Jaskier the bard of the White Wolf and a fair amount as Dandelion, Cintra’s Winter Bard, but he would be going into this competition anonymously. He loved the feeling of anonymity followed by the reveal that this was no unknown bard but rather the famous Jaskier, or Dandelion depending on his mood. 

As he walked out of his chambers he saw Duny with an unfamiliar man walking by. Jaskier quickly ducked behind his door and heard the two speaking in quiet tones. 

“Cintra is rotting from the inside out,” the unknown man was saying. He was tall, with long black hair, and neatly trimmed beard. Jaskier could make him out from the crack in the door. 

“I know, but I have to remain here,” Duny said, “I have a life here, my wife, my child.”

“Should they be cursed to remain here?” the man said, “waiting for Cintra’s hubris to lead to it’s inevitable fall?”

Duny shook his head, “I’ve been gone for far too long, leaving now only to go someone unknown would mean nothing to me.”

“But the prophecy.”

“Damn the prophecy. You have no evidence such a thing even exists.”

Then the man looked to where Jaskier hid behind his door and his eyes narrowed. Shit, Jaskier was about to be made. He quietly moved back a few steps and then made a racket coming out of his door, lute case, and bag, swinging about. He pushed the door open and generally tried to make himself as obvious as possible. 

He made his face one of surprise as he looked at the two of them, “Oh hello Duny, Duny’s friend whom I’ve never met. Is there a party outside my chambers I didn’t know about?”

Duny looked tired, worried, even more so than last night and Jaskier wondered if his recent exhaustion wasn’t simply due to raising a young daughter. 

“Hello Jaskier,” Duny said, “this is Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, he’s a mage with the brotherhood and an old friend of mine from my...curse years.”

The man, Vilgefortz, bowed just a bit to Jaskier in greeting, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. 

Then he looked into Jaskier’s eyes and he ran his eyes over Jaskier’s face.

“Are you perhaps related to the Fairchildes of Galeta?”

Of course, Jaskier had no idea, but it was better to be safe than to catch the attention of this mage. 

“Yes, actually I am close cousins on my mother’s side. Why?”

Vilgefortz shook his head, “Oh not much, you just look similar to one of your ancestors, I went to Ban Ard Academy with him you know. With a different hair color you two look remarkably similar. Shame about his death.”

“Ah yes,” Jaskier said, spewing complete bullshit and relying on his vague knowledge about the people of Galeta, “so sad too, there are so few mages in Galeta it would have been nice to have one there from the family.”

Vilgefortz nodded, seemingly content with what Jaskeir had said and he used that opportunity to begin walking out of the castle.

“Well I must be off to Novigrad,” Jaskier said, “bardic competitions to win and all that.”

Duny waved him off, “Safe travels, and come back if you can, unless you run into that Witcher of yours.”

With that, Jaskier was off. As he left he tried to think on the conversation he had overheard. Was Duny planning on leaving Cintra? On absconding with his family. How strange would it be for Calanthe to spend years believing Jaskier would take her family away when Duny seemed to be plotting that same concern now. 

What was strange was that Jaskier had no idea where they would go, and he was sure Pavetta would not agree. And what was that about a prophecy? Granted, prophecies were made every day but if there was one about perhaps the fall of Cintra or the royal family...Jaskier wondered why Duny was keeping it all a secret. 

It wasn’t as if there was anyone he could tell. Calanthe was out, Eist would tell the Queen and honestly, Pavetta might not believe him over Duny. For now, Jaskier would simply have to wait and see. 

The path to Novigrad was quite nice this time of year, as spring slowly awakened. For the most part, the snow was completely melted so Jaskier didn’t have to worry overly much about the cold and could camp outside instead of having to enter towns. 

If he entered towns someone might see his lute and ask him to play, and then word might spread of Jaskier traveling to Novigrad and his anonymity in the bardic competition would be shot.

He reached Novigrad quickly and without delay and there was already a fair crowd of people milling about, likely excited for the event. 

Jaskier walked over to the judge’s table, wearing a cloak with a heavy hood.

“Name?” the tired woman at the stand asked.

“Robin,” Jaskier says and the woman writes down the name.

“That’ll be 10 coppers and your number is 17,” she says and Jaskier hands over the money.

Jaskier then leaves to go meander about the crowd and an hour later the competition is beginning. The way the Novigrad competition is set up is that the bards are given a prompt and have five minutes to compose a song. This is an open competition so there is a wide variety of talent levels. There are court bards who are very talented and use hardly a minute of their time before beginning to perform and others who are here to learn more than win and use up most of their time writing. 

He is leaning against a Butcher’s shop listening to #13 perform and a hand clamps down on his shoulder, “Funny finding you here,” a deep voice says.

Jaskier spins around and pulls out his dagger, only to find himself pointing it at a white-haired man wearing, not, for once, his full armor but instead a standard black shirt and pants. 

He lowers the dagger and puts his hand on his chest, “Fuck, Geralt, you almost scared me half to death. Your voice does not inspire comfort. For a moment, I thought one of my many enemies had finally caught up to me.”

Geralt gave Jaskier that trademark unpleasant grin and said, “Who knows, I might find cause to kill you yet. I suppose you are here for the bardic competition?”

“Of course I am, but try not to say my name yes?”

“Ah, doing one of your...disguise things?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “Yes I am.”

“Never understood those.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Geralt hmmmed and leaned back against the shop with Jaskier. He never got why Jaskier enjoyed disguises and spying and trickery quite so much. Geralt was a straight-forward person who said and did exactly what he thought. It was a trait that allowed them to complement each other so well. 

“So,” Jaskier said, thoroughly uninvested in the performing bards, “If I’m here for the competition, why are you here? I don’t suppose you plan on bringing out a lute anytime soon?”

Geralt ran his hand through his hair and said, “I was on a contract for a Leshen nearby.”

Jaskier winced. That had likely...not been enjoyable. Geralt shared his look, “I was badly injured and have spent the last week recuperating here in Novigrad.”

Jaskier looked Geralt over and saw a dark bruise on his neck, just hidden by his white hair. “Recuperating,” Jaskier said with a scoff, “well, be careful Geralt, your recuperation stands out quite a bit on your neck.”

Geralt’s hand moved to his neck and he adjusted his hair so it covered the mark just a bit more. 

“Number 16!” The announcer cried out and Jaskier stood at attention now, getting out his lute and tuning it quietly as the woman on the stage performed. 

“Let me know when she’s finished,” Jaskier asked Geralt who simply nodded. 

Okay, this was just another run-of-the-mill competition. Stay focused. Jaskier tried not to think about the fact that this would be the first time Geralt had actually watched him compete and that a fair amount of his songs always ended up about Geralt one way or another. He also tried very hard not to think about exactly how Geralt had gotten that mark on his neck. 

Jaskier tried not to think about how Geralt must have tilted his neck for whoever made that mark to get just the right amount of purchase, about how much strength they must have used, for the mark to stand out even on a Witcher’s body. 

“Number 17!” The announcer shouted and Geralt nudged Jaskier. He made his way to the stage where the announcer had a slip of paper. 

“Standard rules,” the announcer said, “five minutes maximum to write, five minutes to perform.”

Jaskier unrolls the paper to look at the word written on the parchment. 

_The Sea_

Alright, he can work with this. Simplistic. The less time he uses the better his score will be. It would show mastery of the art. He’s gonna use a simple i-iv-v-i chord progression, many throw in a fancy picking pattern to wow the judges. Am-Dm-Em-Am. Nothing too difficult. Now the song. Jaskier’s mind wanders to the sea, to the ocean, and who exactly he wishes to take there. 

Fuck it, if Geralt notices he notices. Of course, the Witcher has seemed as dense as a block of wood so far so perhaps Geralt wouldn’t notice a thing about this song. 

Jaskier strums his lute, beginning a simple tune. It is almost haunting. It sounds like it ought to be played on the deck of a ship, low tune drifting between the fog. It sounds dark and entirely unlike the other pieces that have been created so far.

Alright, opening lines, time to get the judges' attention. They seemed bored with the chord progression so Jaskier does a simple riff on the lute and Judges perk up a bit in their chairs, but they, like everyone else, are waiting for the words. The lyrics suited the melody, and came into being simultaneously with it, the words blending into the music, becoming set in it like insects in translucent, golden lumps of amber.

_On the empty seashore, little can be lost_

_The sea does not take, just accepts what is tossed_

_Lovers come to meet, enemies come to die_

_The sea gives away just as much as it hides_

_Among the cries of seagulls, two lost souls meet_

_Simply searching for more, within the sandy beach_

_Blue and gold meet, across the sunset low_

_Love at first sight, hearts now entwined_

_The sea does not take, just accepts what it is tossed_

_For on the empty seashore, little can be lost_

_Pushed together by fate, tied by choice_

_Lost souls are found as the sea may rejoice_

_It’s found it’s final blessing, simple as can be_

_Not even death can destroy their destiny_

_The sea does not take, just accepts what it is tossed_

_For on the empty seashore, little can be lost_

_Little can be lost_

_Little can be lost_

_Little can be lost in the sea_

_When you are fighting for me_

_Oh destiny_

_Our love will be_

_Born at sea_

_Oh come for me_

_Sweet destiny_

Jaskier lets the last line hang in the air as the final A minor rings through the crowd. For a moment, there is silence, then the audience claps and cheers and he can’t tell if it’s equal to the applause received by the other competitors. He leaves the stage. There are five other competitors after him, then the judges will take time to deliberate and then the winner is announced. He goes back to where Geralt was but finds him missing. Fuck. 

He must have left, gone for good. Jaskier might as well have handed the Witcher his heart on a silver platter and watched him throw it on the ground in return. He should have waited. It was too soon. 

Over the years, they danced around it. Every touch that lingered just a little too long, every stare that could have meant more. They parted ways every winter not only because their lives brought them different ways but to relieve the tension that hung between them. Jaskier had finally found his opportunity here in Novigrad and the Witcher had left. Fuck. 

He looked back at the competition, he could wait to hear who had won, but he was more interested in finding his Witcher, in demanding an explanation. 

Jaskier hurried through the streets. If Geralt had been resting here, he would be staying in a tavern. 

“Have you seen a man with white hair walk this way?” he asked a few passerbys.

Some nodded and pointed to a side street off the right. Jaskier ran down it, lute case bumping against his back. There, at the end of a street was a tavern that looked just like the kind Geralt frequented, cheap and likely to not care much about a Witcher staying there. 

He pushed the door open and ran over to the tavernkeep behind the bar. 

“Where is the Witcher?” He asked, throwing some coins onto the table for good measure.”

The man scooped up the coins, “last door on the left,” he said and Jaskier moved down the hall. 

He opened the door just in time to see Geralt swinging his bag over his shoulder. 

Geralt stopped and looked at Jaskier. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked.

“Leaving,” Geralt said, and tried to move past Jaskier to the door behind him but Jaskier put a hand on his chest.

“I assumed we would be leaving together,” Jaskier said. 

“I think it might be for the best if we stay apart a while longer.”

“But we’ve been apart all winter,” Jaskier pushed.

Geralt threw the bag down, “Fuck Jaskier! Maybe I’m tired of being used in every one of your goddamn songs. You can’t just use me as a stand-in for some long-lost love of yours.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt, “Is that what you thought I was doing? Using you as a stand-in?”

Geralt turns his head away, “I know the kind of person you are, flitting from one bed to the next, and I don’t mind but I am tired, Jaskier. Tired of having to watch you turn your gaze to other people yet proclaim love in performance.”

Jaskier stops. Is Geralt saying what he thinks he is saying? Has their banter had more meaning to Geralt? All this time, has Geralt simply believed Jaskier to be making a fool of him, to be playing with him? Has Geralt been wanting Jaskier just as Jaskier has been wanting him, yet too afraid and hesitant to speak, worried about ruining the friendship of the only travel companion he’s ever had that hasn’t eventually left?

“Oh Geralt,” he says, and his heart is physically aching. How long could they have had if he had been just a bit more observant, more clear? “I’ve always thought it was you who thought this was a game, you who didn’t ever want for more.”

Jaskier leans in close to Geralt, “Is this...okay?” Jaskier asks, hesitant.

And Geralt’s yellow eyes are wide and he makes a noise of agreement and then Jaskier is pressing their lips together and it feels so right and Jaskier is a fool for not doing this earlier and oh-Geralt is pulling him down to the bed, bag forgotten and it is probably a good thing that they are in a tavern. He could only imagine Geralt taking him then and there in an alleyway of Novigrad. Perhaps for another time. 

Now, Jaskier is reveling in Geralt finally being with him, with the years of tension between them finally being released and gods, it feels amazing. 

In the end, Jaskier never finds out who wins the competition. It doesn’t matter to him, he won the best prize of them all. He looks over at Geralt, sleeping beside him, eyes closed and face relaxed. He looks more peaceful now, unburdened by the weight of everything a Witcher must carry. It’s good. 

They still separate every winter, but now it’s for shorter amounts of time. They part ways for three months now and always meet each other somewhere in the northern continent. They don’t press each other for where they go. It’s an unspoken knowledge that Jaskier spends his winters in Cintra where Geralt refuses to go so they let that hang between them. Otherwise, things are nice between the two of them. 

There is comfort, a sense of routine. They travel together, Geralt taking contracts and Jaskier composing or lending a hand where needed. Their relationship is comfortable but not too clearly defined. They are not monogamous and if they find comfort outside each other’s arms Jaskier is not overly concerned. They always come back to one another and that is what matters. And of course, Jaskier cannot complain about the services some of the whorehouses in Temeria offer and well, some of the workers only help them along when all three of them work together. 

This routine continues, uninterrupted. Until, that is, Rinde. 

“Careful, Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, digging his heels into the wet sand of the Pontar river. “Hold him, damn it!”

“I am holding him…” groaned the bard. “Heavens, what a monster! It's a leviathan, not a fish! There'll be some good eating on that, dear gods!”

“Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!”

The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current toward the bend in the river. Fishing had seemed like a bring idea at first, that was until they had run into the most brutal and fearless fish on the entire fucking continent. The line was almost at its breaking point and fuck, Jaskier was not going to let dinner get away that easily. 

“Pull, Geralt, pull! Don't loosen it or it'll get tangled up in the roots!”

“The line will snap!”

“No, it won't,” Jaskier paused, “Probably won’t. Nevermind, Pull!”

The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water, and flashed its white belly.

They hunched up and pulled. The catfish came up out of the water and for one fabulous moment Jaskier could see it jumping right into their waiting arms, but instead, it jumped further into the river, taking him with it. He landed face-first into the water, sputtering and coughing, hands barely grasping the line. Geralt stood behind him, face red from effort and grunting. 

“Imagine the smoked meat,” Jaskier said, “It will be amazing!”

The catfish was nearly twelve feet long and perhaps his eyes were bigger than his stomach, but oh gods how he could almost taste the smoked fish on his tongue. His hands loosened for just a second and the fish almost got away.

“ You son of a bitch!” he cried.

Geralt grunted from behind him, “The line is creaking! You have to let it go!”

“It'll hold, don't worry! We'll cook the head…for soup…” Jaskier was so fucking hungry, they hadn’t been in a proper town for a week now, and he wanted real food and not rations so badly. 

The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn't that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

“We'll sell the skin,” Jaskier said, daydreaming, “And the barbels…We'll use the barbels to make—”

Then the line snapped and hit Jaskier in the face, leaving him with a nasty cut on his cheek.

“Fuck!” Jaskier yelled so loud that the sound echoed through the trees. “So much food escaped! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.”

He ran over and got his crossbow, shooting into the water, wanting to kill that fucking fish. Geralt caught his hand before he could load a second bolt and looked at him.

“I told you.” Geralt said, “I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat's arse makes a trumpet.”

“That's not true,” Jaskier whined, “It's my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.”

Geralt laughed, “Jaskier I did all the work here, I caught the crow that ended being the bait, I set the line. You spent the morning composing that new piece.”

“That new piece about that last contract.”

“Doubtful.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m saying it is doubtful you were writing a piece about an illness caused by a dead body in a well that took us less than a day to find.”

Jaskier turned away, “You don’t know that for sure.”

Geralt planted a kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and turned back to the water, winding the line onto a spool. “Not for sure, but I am almost certain. Let’s head back to camp, we need to get that cut cleaned up.”

Jaskier turned to head back to camp but his eyes caught on the other line, the one he had set up earlier in the day, “Geralt!”

“What?” the Witcher said, turning back to Jaskier. 

“There's something on the other line, too…No, dammit, it only got caught. Hell, it's holding like a stone. I can't do it! Ah, that's it…Ha, ha, look what I’m bringing in. It must be the wreck of a barge from King Dezmod's time! What great stuff! Look, Geralt!”

Jaskier might have been exaggerating, the clump of rotted ropes, net and algae pulled out of the water was impressive but it was far from being the size of a barge dating from the days of the legendary king. The bard scattered the jumble over the bank and began to dig around in it with the tip of his shoe. The algae was alive with leeches, scuds and little crabs.

“Ha! Look what I’ve found!” Jaskier said with delight. This was a very lucky find, surely he could find use for it. 

Geralt walked over to Jaskier’s side, curious. The find was a chipped stoneware jar, something like a two-handled amphora, tangled up in netting, black with rotten algae, colonies of caddis-larvae and snails, dripping with stinking slime.

He looked over at Geralt, the Witcher did not know what this was and Jaskier thanked his studies. “Do you know what this is?”

“It's an old pot,” Geralt said, clearly disappointed. 

“You're wrong,” declared Jaskier, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. “This is a charmed jar. There's a djinn inside who'll fulfill my three wishes.”

The witcher snorted.

“You can laugh.” Jaskier said as he finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. “But there's a seal on the spigot and a wizard's mark on the seal.”

“What mark? Let's see,” Geralt said as his disdain was forgotten. Jaskier smiled in a smug manner. Oh, now Geralt was interested, now that his knowledge was proven. 

Jaskier hid the jar behind his back. “And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes. “

There were so many things he could do with it. He could use the wishes to know what Duny was hiding from him. The past few years, the man had grown ever distant and while Jaskier hadn’t seen Vilgefortz again, he knew the mage was lurking around. He could recover his lost memories, gain magic, master a weapon. The possibilities were endless. 

Geralt looked concerned “Don't touch that seal! Leave it alone!”

Jaskier ranked the jar out of Geralt's reach, he would not be getting any of his wishes, “Let go, I tell you! It's mine!”

“Jaskier, be careful! The djinn influences people, don’t wish for anything!”

Jaskier shook his head, what did Geralt know? He probably wanted all the wishes for himself, the selfish blighter. He should wish for Geralt to stop questioning him, for money, for power. Oh, he wanted so much. 

He went to open the jar but Geralt tackled him to the ground. The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

Geralt looked at the smoke, “Fuck,” he said and ran over to their gear to get his sword. Jaskier didn’t move, couldn’t move. He wanted something so badly. He wanted to wish.

The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion's eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

“Djinn!” said Jaskier, stamping his foot. “I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—”

The head snapped its beak, which wasn't really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

“Run!” Jaskier heard Geralt yelling from the distance. “Run, Jaskier!”

Jaskier ignored him, what did Geralt know about Wishes anyway?

“My wishes,” Jaskier continued, “are as follows, first, may this gastly cut on my cheek be healed as I cannot stand for a scar to ruin this face of mine, secondly I wish for my memo-”

His voice got cut off as two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Jaskier tried to cry out but his voice was cut off. 

Geralt reached the head in three leaps, swiped his silver sword and slashed it through the middle. The air howled, the head exhaled smoke and rapidly doubled in diameter. The monstrous jaw, now also much larger, flew open, snapped and whistled; the paws pulled Jaskier around and crushed him to the ground.

Jaskier grabbed his dagger and swung it at where the head of the djinn seemed to be. He couldn’t quite tell where on the unformed body it landed but the djinn screeched and let go of his neck. He took in a gasping breath and leaned to the side and Geralt cast aard at the beast. The sign hit the djinn with a boom that was so loud that it stabbed Geralt's ears, and the air sucked in by the implosion made the willows rustle. The roar of the monster was deafening as it grew even larger, but it released the poet, soared up, circled and, waving its paws, flew away over the water.

The head of the djinn, suspended above the river, had become the size of a haystack, while the open, roaring jaws looked like the gates of an average-sized barn. Stretching out its paws, the monster attacked. 

Jaskier tried to move but he couldn’t. He looked around, for anything he could use to defend himself. 

Geralt, clearly of the same mindset, grabbed the seal from the top of the jar. It was a brass seal decorated with the sign of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star. Jaskier watched as Geralt squeezed the seal in his fist and, extending his hand toward the assailant, screamed out the words of an exorcism. 

Huh, Jaskier hadn’t known Geralt was a religious person. He wondered where the Witcher learned it. 

The seal began to glow red with heat and Jaskier knew it was likely very painful for Geralt but still he held onto the seal. The gigantic head of the djinn froze in the air, suspended, motionless above the river. It hung like that for a moment then, at last, it began to howl, roar, and dispersed into a pulsating bundle of smoke, into a huge, whirling cloud. The cloud whined shrilly and whisked upstream with incredible speed, leaving a trail of churned-up water on the surface. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the distance; only a dwindling howl lingered across the water.

Geralt then turned to Jaskier, holding his head up.

“Jaskier? Are you dead? Jaskier, damn it! What's the matter with you?”

He tried to sit up, to speak, to say anything but his throat burned. Jaskier couldn’t let up more than a wheeze and look up at Geralt’s worried expression. His hands found his throat and he tried to gesture to Geralt that he couldn’t speak but more wheezes just came out of his mouth. 

“Jaskier! What's the matter with you? Answer me!”

Clearly the lack of his voice was very worrying to Geralt. Any other time, Jaskier would be absolutely touched but right now he could hardly think for the pain in his throat.

“Are you in pain Jaskier?”

He tried to nod his head but even that hurt and he winced.

Geralt brought Jaskier up to a sitting position and brushed his hair out of his eyes, “Don't say anything. If everything's all right, nod.”

Jaskier grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded. Then he immediately turned on his side, curled up and—choking and coughing—vomited blood. Oh, he supposed he was not, shockingly, all right. 

Geralt cursed.

Jaskier didn’t remember much of the ride into Rinde, but it was very uncomfortable. They found themselves in a healer’s tent, where he heard Geralt speaking. 

“...can you help him,” Geralt was saying to a man, which, oh look that was an elf.

The man walked over and poked Jaskier’s neck, making him let out a hiss, “Oh dear,” the elf said. 

“What?” Geralt replied and Jaskier leaned into him. Hmmmm Geralt was so warm, so nice, so comfy. Maybe he could all asleep and wake up when this is all over?

The elf was speaking again but Jaskier couldn’t catch every word, “...I have received the best medical education right here in Rinde, but…are of a magical nature. I can help with the pain, but it’s a bit like…If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, that damage might be irreversible.”

Jaskier tried to speak again, wanting just a little bit of clarification on his clearly precarious situation“Wha-” any further words were cut off by him vomiting more blood. 

“And the longer he goes untreated, the more likely it is to spread. He could die,” the healer finished.

“Fuck! Geralt,” Jaskier said. 

“That’s not happening,” Geralt says, holding Jaskier up.

The healer shoves a potion down Jaskier’s throat which he somehow manages to keep down, “This medicine should buy him a few hours, but he needs a magical remedy. You’ll have to take him to another town,” the healer says. 

“There isn’t a mage here?” Geralt says, hefting Jaskier up just a bit.

The healer says something Jaskier can’t make out then Geralt is using that threatening voice of his.

“...Tell me,” Geralt says to the man.

“Well… there… there is one mage. I… was tasked with bringing this mage to justice. But I was unable to penetrate certain defenses. The mayor himself has made the catch and has imprisoned the mage in his house.”

Geralt begins to move out of the tent, “That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?”

The elf calls out from behind him, “Be careful. The mage is powerful and malicious. And quite cunning.”

Jaskier can’t hear Geralt’s response but they are back on Roach heading towards the mayor’s house. 

Geralt walked right past the guards at the front of the house and they came in through the kitchen entrance. 

“The room was a big kitchen, full of utensils, smelling of herbs, and resinous wood. On the stone floor, among fragments of a clay jug, knelt a completely naked man with his head hanging low.

“Apple juice, bloody hell,” he mumbled, shaking his head like a sheep which had rammed a wall by mistake. “Apple…juice. Where…Where're the servants?”

“I beg your pardon?” Geralt asked. 

The man raised his head and swallowed. His eyes were vague and very bloodshot. Jaskier could hardly keep his head straight. 

“She wants juice from apples,” he stated, then got up with evident difficulty, sat down on a chest covered with a sheepskin coat, and leaned against the stove. “I have to…take it upstairs because—”

“Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the merchant Beau Berrant?”

“Quieter.” The man grimaced painfully. “Don't yell. Listen, in that barrel there…Juice. Apple. Pour it into something…and help me get upstairs, all right?”

Jaskier sees Geralt reach for a mug and then he passes out. 

He wakes to find himself in a room filled with...lots of naked bodies. There’s a man who looks at him and sighs, “Who invited this guy?” he says and then he’s shoved onto the floor. Jaskier looks up to see Geralt talking to a woman in black at the front of the room. 

His vision blacks out for a second and when he opens his eyes again Geralt is surrounded by naked people, getting thoroughly booed. 

“Party-crasher,” one calls out, throwing a used condom at Geralt’s head.

“Way to kill the mood,” another says, throwing a shoe. 

Some people are packing up and leaving but others seem determined to stay. 

“Please, everyone,” the woman in black says, “we can...convene again some other time, this Witcher demands my presence.”

People slowly began to trickle out, snatching various articles of clothing and spitting on Geralt, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. 

Yennefer walks over to Jaskier, tilting up his chin. 

Geralt is talking again, “Can you help him he’s-”

“Geralt,” the woman interrupted sharply, “I stopped an orgy for you and I didn't intend to do that before the chime of evening. Do you know why? Because you brought me the apple juice. You were in a hurry, your head was troubled with your friend's suffering, you forced your way in here, and yet you thought of a thirsty woman. You won me over, so my help is not out of the question. But I won't do anything without hot water and soap. Go. Please. And prepare me a bath”

Geralt nodded and began to walk away and the woman leaned closer to him. Something about her called to Jaskier, her violet eyes and black hair drawing him into her orbit. 

“Now, what to do with you-” Jaskier heard before a sudden and unnatural sleep overtook him. 

When he woke up, he was in a bed he didn’t recognize. Huh, the last thing he remembered was fishing with Geralt, then...it was a bit fuzzy. He doesn’t remember it all that well. He looks over to see an absolutely gorgeous topless woman sitting beside him. 

Alright, so perhaps he and Geralt had a bit of fun last night. Little too much alcohol and he didn’t remember but he was sure there could be a round two. He looked around the room and didn’t see Geralt, but there, in the corner was Geralt’s armor. 

He looks at the woman, saying, “Where am I?” She doesn’t respond, “Um… Right. Good. Good. Um… Not to be… untoward or anything, but I don’t remember much of last night, must have had too much to drink.” 

She turns towards him fully and she has bright purple eyes that seem to be glowing. Ah, that is...not good. She is clearly a mage and Geralt is missing Jaskier is now remembering the djinn by the river bank and fuck this sorceress must have helped them after the orgy but she is giving him a look that quite frankly terrifies the shit out of him.

Jaskier begins to get out of the bed, “Look, I am so sorry, but I’ve just remembered I left my… cat on the… stove. I- I really must be going.”

He doesn’t even manage to get out of the bed before the topless mage is holding him down once more with a knife to his throat and saying, “ Express your deepest desire and you can be on your way.”

Jaskier gently pushes the knife aside with the tip of his finger and gets off the bed, searching for his jacket. 

“Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much.”

He is then slammed against the wall with magic and the sorceress is looking down at him, “You have used two wishes,” she said, “it is time to use your third.”

“I wish very badly to leave this place alongside Geralta and oh gods please don’t stab me.”

“Good,” She says and then pushes Jaskier aside, beginning to chant in elder and a wave of magic filled the room. 

He tried to walk out the door, to leave this sorceress to her fate but a physical force stopped him from leaving the room. She was going to die and Jaskier would not like to join her but no matter what he did he couldn’t leave. Fuck. Had she put up some kind of barrier? He would love to ask her but she seemed just a little bit busy chanting and trying to, what was this? Trap the djinn. 

Of all the stupid-you don’t trap a djinn. They fucking tear you apart. Jaskier rubbed his throat, even being the master of a djinn was apparently not enough these days. 

Then Geralt runs into the room and sees Jaskier, a frown forming on his face.

“She’s trying to trap the fucking Djinn, Geralt!” Jaskier yells to be heard over the wind. 

Geralt moves to break the ritual circle but the mage holds up a hand, “I don’t need your help,” she says, “You are free, no longer under my spell.”

“We aren’t leaving,” Jaskier says, not only because he literally can’t seem to leave but now it seems cruel to abandon this woman to her fate.

“Do you want to die?” She shouts.

“You seem to,” Geralt says and then Jaskier notices the cracks forming on her skin, the magic damage. Fuck is there anything he can do about this? A voice comes to him then, old and familiar. It feels like home. 

_“Magic stems from nature. It is in the earth we walk upon, in the fire burning in its heart, in the air we breathe, and in the water which brings life and which flows within us. If you happen to be gifted with a particular talent, all you need to do is reach out your hand and grasp the magic all around you.”_

The voice is low and deep and commanding. 

_“...We work alongside chaos and accept its balance and flaws. It will not solve our problems and to assume we can control it is to assume incorrectly. We do not control Chaos, rather, it lets us use its power. Never forget that magic above all else is a gift.”_

“Magic is a gift,” Jaskier repeats and then the mage says, “The djinn isn’t weakening, the bard expressed his last gift, it should be weakening but it isn’t, fuck!”

“That’s because I’m the one with the wishes,” Geralt says and Jaskier is now terrified. 

“You are going to tear yourself apart!” he yells at her and moves forward to try and physically stop her but Geralt holds him back. 

“Let go of me!” He yells at Geralt. 

“She has to make this choice herself,” Geralt says and there’s something in his eyes, something of memories. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” She screams at Geralt, “Make your wishes!”

Geralt shakes his head, “The djinn will destroy you, no matter the wish. If you release the djinn I will give you the last wish.”

The mage laughs, her bones crack, “You heroic protector… noble dog, permitting my success so long as you command it yourself. Fuck off! I’ll do this myself!”

“Damn it, Yennefer! Tell me what you want!” Geralt says, frustrated, Jaskier straining against his arms, something deep inside of Jaskier telling him he has to help this woman, save her, NOW. 

“I want everything!” Yennefer cries just as Jaskier finally breaks free of Geralt’s hold and he lunges at the mage, Yennefer, clutching her hands in his own. He feels the power enter him then, becoming just another link in this chain of wild magic Yennefer has created. He feels his eyes roll back in his head. Jaskier has no affinity to magic and had never learned it. 

His vision goes white and he sees it then, a veil in front of him, a kaleidoscope of colors. The djinn is in this veil, trapped, Yennefer tying him down, the djinn is fighting, trying to possess Yennefer but they can’t, not with Jaskier there as well. 

Then, the ties binding the djinn disappear all at once and Jaskier is thrown back to his body suddenly and rapidly. 

He collapses, shaking and Geralt is there, holding both him and Yennefer. 

“Where did it go?” Yennefer is saying, “where did it fucking go?” 

“I made my last wish,” Geralt says and then the ceiling collapses, Yennefer opens a portal the three of them fall through. 

They find themselves in another part of the mansion, all three in complete disarray. Jaskier is exhausted and wants nothing more than to fall asleep for a century or two. 

He pushes himself off of Geralt and flops onto the floor, trying to catch his damn breath. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, “Are you okay?”

“Please kill me,” Jaskier responds and Geralt pecks him on the lips and seemingly takes this as the go-ahead to check on Yennefer.

“Yennefer?” he says, moving the hair out of Yennefer’s face, “It’s me… Geralt.”

Her eyes snapped open and she pushed Geralt away, Glaring at the both of them, “I know who you are, idiot. What did you do? You two bastards stopped me, didn’t you? I nearly had it.”

“You had shit all. I saved your life,” Geralt responds.

“And I saved yours! You let the djinn escape, and that fucking bard interrupted my ritual. Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?”

“No more havoc than you. Djinns are only dark creatures when held captive.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“When did you last feel happy when you felt trapped? And if you were going to portal us to safety, you could’ve taken us out of this shit town!”

Oh fuck, Jaskier thought to himself. Geralt _liked_ this mage. All the signs were there, the closeness, the arguing, the protectiveness. 

“A fine critique if you could make a portal yourself. And it wasn’t a shit town, it was a fine town till you came along. I had a plan!”

“And that was going swimmingly!”

“It was,” Yennefer said, very close to Geralt now, “Like a drowning fish.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned, reminding them both that he was here, “If you two are going to have sex right now, I beg of you to please, please, move me to another room. I am so fucking tired and I can’t use fucking magic but here I am, in the middle of a goddamn binding ritual, please put me out of my misery.”

Yennefer looked at him, considering, “All right,” she said and then a portal opened underneath Jaskier and he yelped as he fell, landing in a bed.

He looked to see Yennefer practically tackling Geralt as the portal closed. He realized he might just like the mage as well, just a bit. Maybe if he wasn't so tired he'd join in next time. Jaskier curled up and tried to sleep, fuck he really was tired. 

When he woke up, it was completely dark out and Geralt was beside him, Yennefer on Geralt’s other side. They were both wearing very little clothing and Jaskier really hoped they hadn’t done anything in the room with him. Geralt was classier than that. He hoped. 

He got out of the bed, not even causing either occupant of the bed to stir and moved. Jaskier had to piss something awful. He had no idea where a bathroom would be so he wandered the halls until he found one. It was late now, pitch black outside and half the house seemed in ruin. He hoped the mayor wasn’t too attached to this place, or the inhabitants of that orgy. 

On his way back, Jaskier found himself looking in a library where most of their stuff seemed to be piled in. Oh, Roach was here too. Inside a house. The mayor’s house to be precise. Huh. He went up and pet her, “You have been through far too much today Roach,” Jaskier said. 

Then he noticed a small trunk near Geralt’s armor. It was one he didn’t recognize, all green accents and black leather. It must be Yennefer’s. Well, Jaskier was a curious sort and she did owe him for saving her life. He went over to the trunk and opened it. 

Inside were any number of dresses, some potions, and even a few books. Jaskier felt his eye being drawn to one book in particular. It was dark green, the leather it was bound in cracked in some places. There was a silver medallion on the front cover, inlaid on it. It looked a lot like Geralt’s, but instead of a wolf hovering in the metal, there was a Griffin, claws looking sharp enough to prick. 

Jaskier felt his hand reaching out towards the book, almost against his will. When he touched the medallion it came off the book, falling off like it wasn’t attached to the book, to begin with. 

He bit his tongue to avoid letting out a yelp. Fuck. Fuck, Fuck. He had just broken Yennefer’s book. He heard footsteps. Fuck again. He was holding the medallion in his hand and the sounds were growing closer. Quickly, Jaskier slipped the Griffin Medallion over his head and closed the trunk, heading over to Roach just in time for him to see Yennefer walk through the door, a little more clothed than before. The medallion hung against his chest, thrumming a bit, hidden underneath his shirt. 

“Ah,” she said, seeing him petting Roach, “I see you found your supplies.”

“This has to be the nicest place Roach has ever stayed in,” Jaskier said in reply.

“Roach,” Yennefer said, wrinkling her nose.

“The horse,” Jaskier replied, “named after the fish, not the insect. Geralt names all his horses Roach.”

Yennefer sighed, “I don’t know Geralt as well as you, but that seems perfectly in character.”

“It is,” Jaskier agrees, adding, “So what brought you to Rinde?”

“Stupid people and little oversight,” Yennefer said, “Cintra is in chaos right now, so I have plenty of opportunities.”

Jaskier felt a cold chill rush down his spine, “Cintra is in chaos?”

Yennefer looks at him, “Haven’t you head?” She says, “Princess Pavetta and her husband perished at sea.”

* * *

“Just a little bit further,” Renfri says, grunting and sweating.

“You said that two hours ago,” Deidre responds, equally as sweaty.

“I haven’t been here in a few years but I know that it’s a safe place. You can get the wards up and running, maybe add a few new ones and we’ll be safe here.”

“You say that, but you also said that about the last dozen locations.”

“The number of people that know about this place I can count on one hand.”

The two of them had left Zerrikania shortly after Renfri’s resurrection. Deidre had finished her training and Renfri had no wish to become a mage. They were of course forbidden from revealing the dragons’ existence or teaching this magic to anyone else but they had no plans to do either of those things anyways. 

Deidre had decided against going to Kaer Morhen, weary of meeting up with Geralt and honestly apprehensive about seeing Eskel again as well. Her father figure was well, he was a quiet sort of person but she didn’t know how he would react to her new appearance as well as the resurrected girl who traveled along with her. 

She had avoided sending messages to Eskel and had been able to firmly avoid him. Perhaps if Renfri and her were able to settle down, she could give him the location and meet up, but their search for a home had been futile. People always noticed the woman with the half-mask and her companion who always wore their hood up. 

To avoid comparisons to the Shrike, Renfri had cut her hair very short and started acting as a man in public. She could pass as a youthful man, very late teens if she wanted to and it was a lot less conspicuous than two women traveling together. 

Still, everywhere they went, mages would try and find Deidre, see if she was a graduate of Aretuza or they would get unwanted attention. That was why they were now moving towards Poviss, towards the ruins of Kaer Seren. Renfri had been correct when she said no one remembered this place. Honestly, only a handful of mages, Stregobor included, knew it still existed and Deidre could put up mage-repelling wards no problem. In an isolated place like this it wouldn’t garner any attention. 

It looked just like it had years ago, a skeletal structure of stones with scorch marks and pine trees all around. 

But they had plans for the keep. It was isolated, safe, and had fresh food and water. They could upkeep it and turn it back into a real home. 

Renfri felt her eyes water just a bit and Deidre came up behind her, holding her close, “Everything alright?” she asked.

Renfri nodded, “I was just thinking, Julian would have loved this you know? He wanted someone to eventually fix Kaer Seren, to make it a home again.”

“We’ll make it our home,” Deidre said and the two of them began to plan, breathing in the salt air of the sea and the fresh mountain air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh also I changed the summary to reflect the current story a bit more, let me know what you think about it?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grieving is a complicated process, dealing with increasingly confusing signs to your own identity on top of it? Even more complicated.

Jaskier stood still, unmoving, clothed in black. He hadn’t worn the color much before and certainly didn’t enjoy wearing it now. There was a light snow falling, the first of the season. Under any normal occasion, this would be considered a holiday for the kingdom, a day to relax and relish the joy of the season. This year, the first snow signaled the day that Cintra mourned the deaths of Princess Pavetta and Prince Duny. 

Cirilla stood with Calanthe on the dias, watching as their bodies were lowered into graves. Most of the kingdom had gathered at the royal graveyard for today’s ceremony. Pavetta and Duny had been well-loved by the people and there were more than a few worried for the future of Cintra. Ciri was only seven years old and while Calanthe would certainly rule for many more years losing an entire generation of royals was heartbreaking. 

Jaskier stood with Mousesack and other advisors to the crown back a fair distance, closer than the common people of Cintra but not standing with the royals themselves. He listened as somber music played to announce Pavetta and Duny’s burial. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to offer to play for the funeral procession, the pain of their passing was too raw. 

Over the years, Pavetta and Duny had become close friends of his, and while he tried to keep a stoic face for Ciri, he still let out a few tears. Jaskier saw Mousesack do the same. 

Calanthe, for once, had said nothing at his sudden arrival. He had burst in, sweating and exhausted having not slept for the entire 48-hour journey from Rinde to Cintra. The moment Yennefer had told Jaskier of the royal’s passing, he had told her he had to leave, to let Geralt know he had some urgent business, to make something up he didn’t care. Jaskier had to get to Cintra. In retrospect, he likely could have asked Yennefer to portal him to Cintra but he hadn’t been thinking clearly, couldn’t think clearly. 

Jaskier had taken a horse from a nearby farm on ridden until his legs were cramped and his mouth dry, his mouth empty and hungry. He had stopped for long enough to eat something before setting off again. 

He hadn’t fully believed Pavetta and Duny were dead until he had burst into the castle to see the pain on Calanthe’s face. Pavetta had been her pride and joy. Jaskier looked over at the queen, watched as her face didn’t move an inch as her daughter was buried. He was very worried about her. Eist wasn’t trying or wasn’t able to remain stoic as Calanthe did and had tears freely flowing down his face. Calanthe and Eist held hands tightly. Meanwhile, the Queen had her other arm wrapped around Ciri, pulling her close. The young princess was crying very loudly, the sound echoing in the air. 

Jaskier hated this. They were so young, so full of life, with so many ideas. They didn’t deserve to die at sea, without even their bodies to fully lay them to rest. Calanthe didn’t tell the rest of the Kingdom about the lack of bodies. It was seen as bad luck to lay an empty coffin to rest but there was nothing they could do. Pavetta and Duny’s ship had gone missing far out at sea and there was simply no way of recovering the bodies. 

The funeral ended and slowly but surely the people began to leave, to drift away, back to their lives. The people wouldn’t mourn forever. Jaskier looked up to Calanthe, Eist, and Ciri. They might. 

When only the royal court remained, Calanthe gestured to the guards and they began escorting them back to the palace. Jaskier and Mousesack, along with the court, followed behind. 

“It still doesn’t feel real,” Jaskier to Mousesack.

The druid nodded, “I know, I keep expecting to watch as they walk through the doors of the castle, apologizing for being late, but then I remember-”

“They aren’t coming back,” Jaskier finishes, and Mousesack nods. 

“They aren’t.”

“I can only imagine what this is doing to Ciri, to lose both of her parents.”

Mousesack shakes his head, “She hasn’t spoken in a few days. It’s difficult to get her to eat. Calanthe has been spending a lot of time around her. The most important thing is for her to be around family. A small part of her doesn’t fully understand they aren’t coming back yet. She sometimes asks for them and we can do nothing to help.”

“I hate this,” Jaskier says, “I feel so helpless, so out of control.”

“It’s grief,” Mousesack says, “I haven’t been able to sleep well in weeks. I’m hoping having you here too will help Ciri a bit as well.”

“I’m hoping that I will be able to offer another shoulder for all of you to lean on,” Jaskier says, “they weren’t my family, I can’t claim your standard of grief.”

Mousesack looks at him, “Not all family is blood,” he says and then the two of them finish their walk to the palace in silence. 

When the guards and court disperse Jaskier notices that Ciri is taken back to her rooms while Eist and Calanthe go to their rooms. He wonders at Ciri being left alone so goes to Calanthe’s rooms to ask. 

It becomes clear why Ciri was sent away when he reaches the Queen’s rooms. Calanthe is sobbing, huge, gasping sobs that sound as if she cannot possibly have enough air in her lungs to reflect her utter and complete sorrow. These are the sobs of a broken woman and Jaskier feels like an intruder, an interloper. He understands why she sent Ciri away. She shouldn’t have to watch her grandmother fall apart like this. It wasn’t right. 

Eist is rubbing circle on Calanthe’s back and his eyes meet Jaskier’s and they share a moment of grief. Calanthe and Jaskier have never been close, not as close as he and Pavetta at any rate, but they have this common grief so he walks over to her and Eist. 

He sits on the edge of the couch Calanthe is resting on and he reaches out a hand and she clutches it like a lifeline. Her grip is bruising but Jaskier welcomes the pain. Tears are flowing down his face and while he is not crying his breath is coming gasps and he can hardly speak for the lump in his throat. 

Calanthe looks up at him and her eyes are red, her face puffy, “Why did it have to happen this way?” She asks him, “I did not want to rule for another twenty years. Pavetta had so much light, such a future.”

“She would have made a wonderful queen,” Eist says and Calanthe leans back into his touch. Jaskier wants to find the right words to say but none are forthcoming. What can he say that would change the grief Calanthe is feeling, the endless deep well of grief she holds for her only child. She wouldn’t have another daughter, not like Pavetta.

Even Cirilla, wonderful as she was, would never act as a replacement for Pavetta, the grief for her only child would forever remain in Calanthe’s heart and Jaskier didn’t feel qualified to comfort her. Luckily, Eist and Mousesack were there and the druid made his presence known by bringing a hot mug of tea to Calanthe. She took it gratefully, holding the mug in her hands and letting the warmth seep into her joints. 

“Thank you,” she said, her sobs subsiding and her breathing returning to normal. 

She was no longer holding onto Jaskier’s hand and he flexed it open and closed, testing the feeling in his fingers once again. He watched as Calanthe drank the tea, breathing deeply and clearing trying to center herself once more. 

“The worst of it is over,” she said. 

This, Jaskier knew. The graves were marked and the funeral procession finished. Now all that was left was to declare Cirilla the official heiress to Cintra and it would be done. 

Then, a guard came running into the room. 

“The princess is gone!” He shouted and Jaskier was upon his feet, quick as he could possibly be. Calanthe dropped the mug, letting it shatter on the stone floor. 

She stood, tear tracks clear on her face and stalked towards the guard, “How did you lose a seven year old girl?” She screamed, uncaring of her appearance. 

“I...I’m sorry, my queen, she ducked out of sight and then she was gone, must have found a passage we couldn’t see or hidden somewhe-”

The guard was cut off by Calanthe punching him in the face. He dropped like a sack of flour to the floor. Calanthe grabbed her sword belt and tied it around her waist. She had a straight spine and a purpose to her steps. 

“You!” She yelled outside the room, “I want the Princess found immediately.”

Then Calanthe looked around the room at Jaskier, Eist and Mousesack. 

“Go,” she said, “We can cover more ground apart. We have to find Cirilla.”

The three of them nodded and then Jaskier was off, the four of them walking in opposite directions. Jaskier hoped Ciri had run off to grieve, had not been kidnapped by some nefarious force or someone trying to take advantage of Cintra’s weakness. He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to think that way. For now, he had to think about where a scared seven-year-old girl would run to in her grief. He abruptly turns and leaves the palace walls. She wouldn't stay here. 

That sneaky little child knew all the ins and outs of the palace and would certainly be able to find her way into the general populace. But where could she go? She wouldn’t head to the square or the cemetery. The market place would be far too busy this time of day and would scare her off. Jaskier was now out of the palace gates and was wildly looking around for Cirilla. He spotted the woods behind the castle. 

There. He walked towards them at a sedate pace, trying not to look like he was in a hurry. It wouldn't cause panic with the general public or make it common knowledge the Princess was missing. 

Jaskier had taken Ciri on many walks out to these woods during the winter months. Pavetta and Duny would also take Ciri hunting here. They would spend entire days out in the forest, teaching Ciri how to track her prey, how to hold a bow. She was a child so Duny had made her a training bow to use and she loved it. Ciri would have likely started her sword training soon as well. Duny had been very excited to teach Ciri. Duny considered himself a fair hand at the blade and saw so reason why he wouldn’t teach his daughter the same way he would teach a son. This was one arena where Duny and Calanthe agreed whole heartedly.

This forest is where her parents had met and Ciri considered it a special place indeed. It held many memories for her and remained a safe place in her mind. 

The first snow of the season rarely stuck to the ground so while it was chilly, Jaskier didn’t feel it through his thick cloak he was wearing over the black pants and shirt he had worn for the funeral. The ground was however wet and Jaskier felt his shoes getting stuck in the mud. 

But then the ground transitioned to the pine needles and foliage of the forest and he began to make his steps light naturally to avoid being noticed. Jaskier listened carefully for any sound and then he heard it. Soft sobbing coming from ahead to his left. 

He walked quickly and quietly to the source of the noise and there she was. Ciri was dressed in the funeral blacks and she had her head buried in her knees. She was crying and Jaskier stepped on a stick as he came close and her head snapped up.

Ciri looked at him but didn’t say anything. Her face was pale and her eyes rimmed in red. The seven-year old’s bottom lip was still trembling and Jaskier didn’t move to pick her up but instead sat down beside her and leaned against the same tree. Ciri hadn’t grabbed her cloak as she ran out of the castle so she was shivering something awful so Jaskier opened his cloak and Ciri came in closer to him, huddling in for warmth. 

“Mommy and Daddy aren’t coming back,” she said, her wet eyes turning up to look at him, “are they?”

Jaskier felt his heart break, “No, lion cub, they aren’t. But your grandmother and grandfather are waiting for you in the castle. Don’t you want to go back, to get out of this cold?”

Ciri shook her head, burrowing further into Jaskier’s side. She spoke but her voice was muffled by the layers of clothes, “Mommy and Daddy loved the forest, if I stay here they are with me.”

He tried to rack his brain for a way to convince Ciri to come back with him. Jaskier didn’t want to force her back. Then he had an idea. 

“You know, you can take a piece of your loved ones with you wherever you go. In your heart. Even when they leave you you still remember them.”

“How do you know that?” Ciri said, still muffled by his side. 

“Because,” Jaskier started, “I have a story.”

Ciri poked her head out of his cloak and looked up, “I’d really like a story Jaskier,” she said. 

Then Jaskier began to speak and he didn’t know where this story came from but the words seemed to flow from him, coming unbidden. 

“There once was a girl called The Nightingale Princess. As a young girl, she lived high in the sky, floating on a cloud with her family. No harm could touch her there for she was above the rest of the world. Then one day, a man climbed to the clouds and pushed the girl out of her home. The girl fell from the sky, tumbling, the wind rushing through her ears and for a moment she was afraid she would crash to the ground but a friendly Nightingale sitting perched on a branch in the woods below saw the girl falling. He spread his tiny wings and took off in flight. He caught the girl and lowered her gently to the ground. 

They were in the woods and the girl was alone and hungry but the friendly Nightingale offered to share its food with her and show her to safety. The girl, in debt to the Nightingale for saving her life after falling from the clouds, accepted gratefully. The girl asked what the Nightingale wanted in return and the bird responded nothing, for its love was given freely and true of heart. 

The Nightingale taught the girl all the tricks of the forest, how to fight and run and live freely. She grew strong and brave and the Nightingale was proud. The girl loved the Nightingale and stayed with him in the forest, becoming the Nightingale Princess. 

She had lost her family but gained another. The Nightingale would always shelter the Princess under his wings for he loved her more than anything in the world. He loved her so much that he would take down every cloud in the sky for her, searching for the man that had pushed her out of the heavens. His Nightingale Princess deserved to go home. The Nightingale would protect the Princess until the universe itself stopped him. He would protect her. He should have protected her. H-h-he couldn’t protect her. It wasn’t her fault--It wasn’t…he couldn’t stop it. He loved her so very much but she was never able to return to the clouds. Oh, oh, gods.”

Jaskier feels his voice catch suddenly and he has to stop speaking, holding his throat. It feels as though the air has grown too small as if there is a voice screaming at him that he has lost something of immense importance. He feels a small hand on his face and looks down to see Ciri pressing a dirt-covered hand on his cheek. 

“Why are you crying Jaskier?” Ciri asks, with all the innocence of youth, her own tears have dried now but she is looking at him with curiosity. 

Jaskier raises a hand to his cheek, feeling the tears running down his face. 

“I...I don’t know,” he says, completely honestly. He supposes it could be due to the intense emotions around lately but it was something about the story he had just told. There was something behind it, something more. It hurt him. He could feel this phantom loss like a missing limb and he wondered what it could be from. 

Jaskier looked back down at Ciri and shook himself to remain grounded in the moment. He needed to give this tale a happy ending. For Ciri. 

“What happens to the Nightingale Princess if she can’t return to the clouds?” Ciri asks. 

“She builds a home on the ground,” Jaskier says, “a beautiful home she shares with all her friends from the forest.”

“And the Nightingale? The one that saved her?”

“He’s there too,” Jaskier says, “Living in the trees surrounding the home the Princess built. He isn’t with Nightingale Princess anymore, but she remembers him. So, in many ways, he’s there with her too.”

His voice sounds far away to his own ears but he looks at Ciri’s green eyes and it all comes back into focus. Then Ciri looks at the ground, crawling out from the inside of Jaskier’s cloak. She stands and looks down at him. 

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” she says and then Ciri gives Julian a small smile before walking ahead a bit into the evening rays that were just beginning to hide beneath the trees. 

Julian is struck with such a wave of deja vu so strong that he has to catch his step for a moment before following Ciri back to the Castle. 

The castle is quiet from the outside but the moment he steps inside there is noise everywhere. A servant catches sight of them and immediately calls from Calanthe. 

“The Princess is back!” The guard cries and from around another corner Calanthe comes running, sword drawn. When she sees Jaskier holding Ciri’s hands, the sword is thankfully sheathed. 

“Oh thank goodness,” Calanthe says, sweeping Ciri up into her arms. She holds the girl close, nuzzling into her white hair, and Jaskier smiles. Ciri will be happy, this he knows. For all of Calanthe’s rough exterior she truly does love her grandaughter and would do anything for her. 

Calanthe looks over Ciri’s shoulder at Jaskier and nods. There is gratefulness in her eyes. 

That night, Jaskier cannot sleep. He tosses and turns and feels that same ache deep within his chest. The story he had told in the woods. It called to him in a way he couldn’t explain. He had created the story himself but it felt personal to him for reasons he couldn’t explain. It won’t go away no matter how much he wishes it to. 

In his sleep, Jaskier has visions of a red river. He walks up to the river and dips his hand into the water. It’s thick and smells like blood. Even when he lifts his hands free, it seems to stick to his skin, the river trying to pull him back in. His fingers catch on something in the river and Jaskier pulls a golden crown out of the river of blood. He looks down the stream and sees that the entire river is strewn about with golden crowns bobbing and floating in the impossible current. with many different girls standing on a hill being slaughtered one by one by a man. 

The river leads to a hill where a large gathering of girls is standing in black clothes. The river seems to run from each of them, he is unable to make out their faces. 

He tries to move closer to the hill but he can’t, brambles are growing out of the ground and catching at his clothes, his skin, he is bleeding, being torn from the outside in. 

Jaskier feels a bramble enter into his mouth and tear apart his insides, the thorns rip him apart, and were his vocal cords able to he would be screaming. 

The scene changes. He is in the woods. The trees are grey. The skies are grey. Everything is dried out, the color is empty here. A girl stands in front of him. She looked familiar but he cannot say from where. She stares at him, her short curly brown hair hanging around her dirt-streaked face. She has simple armor over a red shirt. Then, she lurches forward, a dagger coming from behind her to stick out of her chest. She falls and Jaskier catches her, holding her in his arms as she bleeds out. 

Her lips are moving but she can’t make out what she’s saying. Her eyes are looking far away. Then they lock with his own and he hears her say in a clear, too clear voice, “the girl in the woods will be with you always.”

Then the girl is convulsing, shaking, and Jaskier watches as she dies. His hands are covered in blood. He can’t move. He can’t scream. Are the brambles still inside him? Are the thorns still eating him from the inside out?

Jaskier jolts up in bed, panting. He is covered in sweat and shaking. He can’t do this. Whatever is happening to him. It’s getting worse. 

He stays in Cintra through the winter as he always does but it is difficult. No one is sleeping well and oftentimes he wakes in the night to comfort Ciri from her nightmares or to find Calanthe doing the same. She is so young and has lost so much. His dreams continue, just as graphic, and every time he closes his eyes he worries for what his mind might conjure. 

He can’t get the girl out of his head, the one whose body he holds as she dies, the way the light leaves her eyes. It is burned onto the back of his eyelids and it hurts to think of her. Jaskier holds the medallion around his neck and he swears he can feel it humming. This is not a restful Winter.

When he meets back up with Geralt in the Spring Jaskier is still having the strangest dreams. Most nights he dreams of murder, of blood covering his blades and his hands. He dreams of flames and burning and his back is beginning to hurt again. Before, whenever he thought too long about his mysterious past, he would become distracted by some adventure or another. Now it consumes his every thought. Who was he? He wants to know, he hungers for the knowledge of his own identity. Jaskier begins to react to things he doesn’t understand. A noise in the corner of the tavern has him going for his dagger and fire sends him shying away. 

It becomes more clear in Belhaven, a small town near the Amell Mountains that has nothing to boast about as far as sights and exports go. It is mostly a cattle community but they have recently been terrorized by a Griffin. Geralt and Jaskier have been tasked with hunting down a Griffin that has been terrorizing the local populace.

He had met up with Geralt outside the city gates and waved to the Witcher as he walked towards him. The closer Jaskier came to Geralt, a sound began to carry towards him. Geralt humming a tune under his breath. At first, Jaskier had a difficult making it out, but then...no, that can't be. Jaskier feels a sly smile creep across his face. 

"I didn't know you were musically inclined, Geralt."

The Witcher abruptly stops humming and purses his lips, "I am not."

"Oh, I don't know Geralt, if I didn't know any better I would say that you were just humming Toss a Coin under your breath."

"It must be the mountain air, it's making you hear things that are not there, carrying on sounds on the wind," Geralt tried to say but he sounded entirely unconvincing. 

"Just come over here and kiss me," Jaskier said, throwing his bag to the ground.

Geralt smiled and picked Jaskier up, letting the bard lean down and plant a small kiss on his lips.

"Maybe I should rewrite that song," Jaskier mused, "Call it: Toss a Kiss to your Witcher."

He looked over Geralt, "Well, perhaps not, I can see far too many people taking that as advice."

The two of them headed into the city proper to get more details for the Griffin hunt. Jaskier figures this is one fight where it might be best if he stays out of it but Geralt seems more concerned with the beast than anything else. 

Later, they are sitting in their room at the tavern. They’ve had a rather good night so far and Jaskier is lounging naked on the bed. Geralt is at the edge of the bed cleaning his sword. Jaskier knows Geralt well enough to recognize his nervous habits. The way Geralt’s shoulders are hunched in just a touch, the way he keeps running the polish over the same part of the sword all signals his nervousness. 

Jaskier moves so he is sitting behind Geralt and he wraps his arms around him. 

“Come on, Geralt,” he says, massaging Geralt’s neck, “your silver sword is practically so clean you could use it as a mirror.”

Geralt leans into Jaskier’s touch for just a moment before pulling away. 

“I have a bad feeling about this contract,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier continues rubbing Geralt’s shoulders and slowly but surely the Witcher begins to lean back into his touch. 

“What kind of feeling,” Jaskier asks.

“Something isn’t right about this Griffin.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, not that Geralt can see them, “Of course something isn’t right, it’s stealing all the sheep from the nearby shepherds.”

“It’s more than that,” Geralt says, putting down the sword entirely and letting Jaskier knead his shoulders. 

“I’m sure whatever it is you are absolutely prepared for it.”

“Do you plan on coming tomorrow?” Geralt asks and Jaskier considers for a moment. He supposes a crossbow is likely a good weapon against a Griffin. The creatures like to remain airborne while fighting, dive-bombing their prey but Jaskier is worried he might be a liability to Geralt, having to force the Witcher to focus on protecting him from the Griffin’s attacks as well. 

Geralt shrugs when Jaskier asks this, “If you keep a good enough distance the Griffin likely won’t even notice you. Once it locks eyes on its prey, in this case, me, it won’t notice anyone else.”

“So you want me to shoot the Griffin down while it’s fighting you.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt says in agreement then turns onto his stomach, clearly wanting Jaskier to massage his back as well now. 

This is turning into a whole thing now. Jaskier was just hoping to distract Geralt, but well, whatever keeps his partner happy. He reaches for his bag and brings out the scar-softening oil he carries and pours a bit on his hands before beginning to massage Geralt’s back. 

The Witcher has clearly been through a lot, there were scars across his back in the shape of claws and Jaskier had seen them all before but the scar tissue made it difficult for Geralt to often have a full range of motion so massages like this were just as relaxing as they were helpful in battle. If they often led to sex, well, Jaskier wasn’t one to complain. 

However, Geralt and himself had already had quite the enjoyable night and Geralt seemed to be drifting off so it was more likely that Geralt would fall asleep while Jaskier was rubbing his back. Not that Jaskier minded, of course, a sleeping Geralt was a relaxed Geralt and every god knows that man needed to relax more. 

Soon, Geralt was asleep and Jaskier washed the oil off his hands before settling in himself to sleep. He paused, considering what Geralt had been talking about before. What might be different about this particular griffin? The candles are still burning at their bedside so Jaskier decides to get just a little less sleep tonight. He rolls to the side of the bed and reaches into Geralt’s bag and pulls out his bestiary. Jaskier has made a habit of reading up on the assorted creatures they hunted down when he could. He opened the page and began reading. 

_Griffins were once only found high in the mountains, where they would hunt marmots and wild goats. When humans encroached on their lands, however, griffins soon discovered a new source of much more plentiful and easier-caught prey: cows, sheep, and shepherds. Though still wary of main roads and towns (where folk with the means to hire a witcher are like to dwell), these half-eagle, half-wildcat creatures have gone from rarities to oft-encountered pests known throughout the Northern Realms. Especially hated are the subspecies known as royal griffins and archgriffins._

_Griffins mate for life and when their partner is attacked they will defend it to the death. For this reason, they are often considered the embodiment of courage, loyalty, and fighting spirit. This last attribute no one would deny them – when provoked, they will not cease their attack until they have torn their opponent to shreds._

_Griffins find their victims using their extraordinary perceptive sense of smell. After drawing near to their chosen target they attack by swooping down from great height. Their muscular mass combined with their swift speed mean this blow alone is often enough to end the fight. If, however, the victim survives this aerial assault, the griffin will immediately engage it in direct combat, making use of its sharp, curved beak and powerful talons._

_The wounds it deals are deep and cause powerful bleeding. Even worse, griffins do not have any true weaknesses – except for their vulnerability to hybrid oil and certain kinds of bombs._

Jaskier stopped reading and yawned. It seemed like his crossbow would need to be prepared for this battle. He supposed he could use the explosive crossbow bolts and let Geralt handle the tackle and melee fighting. He’s relatively sure they still have some explosive bolts in the bag. 

He set the bestiary down and moved behind Geralt, pulling the sleeping man in closer. When Geralt sleeps, he sleeps like the dead. At least when he’s around someone he trusts. Jaskier hasn’t seen Geralt this open with many people. Jaskier lets himself drift off to sleep, listening to the comfortingly slow rhythm of Geralt’s heartbeat. For once in recent weeks, he doesn’t dream. 

By the time Jaskier wakes, Geralt is already dressed in his armor, swords on his back, and his pack at his shoulder. Jaskier sits up, eyes blurry. 

“Here,” Geralt says and throw Jaskier’s clothes at him. They hit Jaskier in the face and he pushes them off with a glare. It a simple pair of brown breeches and a black shirt. He needs to blend in with the foliage just a bit better than he normally would today. There’s a brown leather chest piece as well he straps on after he’s dressed. It wouldn’t be too much protection but it’s better than nothing. Honestly, if Jaskier ends up head to head with the griffin, armor won’t help him and he’ll have to get the fuck away as fast as possible. Luckily he’s pretty fast for a human. 

Jaskier begins to look around in his bags and can’t find what he’s looking for so he turns to the Witcher. 

“Geralt, where are the explosive cross-bolts?”

“With Roach,” Geralt says as Jaskier follows him out the door. 

The two of them go to the stable and just as Geralt said, Roach, has the explosive bolts in one of her saddlebags. Jaskier grabs the bolts and loads them onto the pouch at his side. Geralt seems much more relaxed than last night about the contract and Jaskier smiles a bit as they head out. The Griffin is likely somewhere in the Amell mountains, nesting. It can’t be too far away and the two of them have talked to enough villagers to know that the griffin goes northeast after taking the sheep so they have a general heading. 

It is early in the day, the two of them having a quick breakfast of fruit while walking along the trail and the crisp morning air is refreshing. Belhaven is at a higher elevation so the trees around this part of the continent are thin and have sharp needles in the place of leaves. Mostly, there are large patches of rocks here and there, dotted about the landscape and short grasses and shrubs. 

The path itself is wide and dirt-covered, well ridden, and easy to traverse. It looks like it hasn’t been used much in recent weeks, which makes sense considering the griffin terrorizing the place. Not too far into the wide mountain path, they begin to see the carcasses of sheep. They are split open from the head to the navel and most of them seem to have the insides sucked out of them, leaving the sheep’s skin and coat on the ground. Many of the carcasses’ bones are crushed. 

“Oh wow,” Jaskier says, “look at these, we can’t be too far from the little beastie now, can we Geralt? The teeth, well uh beak I suppose, this creature must-have. Good thing I have explosives.”

Geralt sends a fondly exasperated look Jaskier’s way. Then, Geralt suddenly motions to Jaskier to get the fuck away from him immediately and Jaskier assumes that Geralt must have heard something he couldn’t. Geralt quickly grabbed a potion and down it, twitching as his eyes bleed black. 

Then Jaskier hears it, the rush of wind that doesn’t sound quite right, that sounds almost like the beating of wings, large ones. Jaskier quickly ducks behind a rock just in time for an absolutely massive fucking Griffin to come dropping out of the sky. It is much large than the previous griffins had been described and looks about twice as mean. Its wingspan easily covered half of the field. 

Geralt wasted no time, he rolled off of Roach which sent her running and drew his sword in the same motion. The griffin went for Geralt, claw extended, Geralt batted the griffin away with the sword and the beast flew back up in preparation for another blow. 

“It’s a fucking Royal Griffin!” Geralt yelled at Jaskier hiding behind a clump of rocks. 

Fuck, Jaskier had no idea what that meant, other than them being quite a bit larger than most griffins. The griffin flew down to Geralt again, this time spitting corrosive acid instead of simply trying to claw the Witcher from the inside out. 

Geralt quickly threw up a Quen and the magic shield caused a lot of the acid to avoid hitting him but Quen was mostly against magical attacks so a fair amount of the acid slipped through and landed on Geralt’s armor. Jaskier shook his head, Geralt should have used heliotrope, a good physical shield would be far more effective against a griffin. Wait. What was heliotrope? How did he know that?

Jaskier didn’t have time to think anymore about the strange sign knowledge because the Griffin was back in the sky again. He didn’t know if Geralt could handle another dive-bombing. It was now or never. Jaskier readied his crossbow, aiming up at the Griffin and just as the beast turned down once more, he let loose. The bolt struck true, hitting one of the creature’s wings with an explosive flair, causing feathers and blood to fly everywhere. 

It spiraled to the ground and Geralt moved out of the way as it crashed to the ground, creating a large crater. 

Geralt wasted no time and immediately ran at the grounded griffin, slashing its throat with his sword while it was still struggling to get up. The griffin twitched for a few moments, one claw reaching out to Geralt before dropping limp, dead. 

Geralt dropped the sword and went to his knees to catch a breath. Jaskier came out from his hiding place and went over to Geralt, checking him over for injuries. 

“Alright, you big, powerful Griffin-slaying Witcher, let’s have a look at you,” Jaskier said, tilting Geralt’s head up to look at him. Besides the acid burns that had eaten through his armor, Geralt seemed fine just tired from the fight. He still had black eyes from the potions but already Jaskier could see the veins retreating, the color returning to Geralt’s skin. 

Geralt leans towards Jaskier, “We better get this Griffin back to town.”

Jaskier looks at the quite frankly massive corpse and sighs, “Please tell me only the head is necessary. I can’t imagine just the two of us will be able to bring the whole body down.”

“The alderman wants the whole body.”

Jaskier throws up his hands, “What’s your brilliant plan then?”

Geralt looks at the corpse, looks at Jaskier, and shrugs. 

“Maybe I can help,” a new voice says and Jaskier turns, recognizing the voice. 

A smile lights up his face, “Yennefer!” Jaskier says, running over to the sorceress just cresting the hill to the field where the battle had occurred. 

She is wearing a black outfit made up of a furred top and leather pants and has never looked better while she cast a disdainful eye on the Griffin’s corpse. 

“What exactly was the plan for moving this?” Yennefer says. 

“There wasn’t one,” Jaskier replied and Yennefer laughs a low chuckling sound. 

“It appears you haven’t grown any smarter in my absence,” she said. 

“Perhaps I save all the stupid for you, as a treat,” Jaskier says in return. 

Geralt gets to his feet and kicks the Griffin just a bit before turning to the two of them, “What are you doing here Yen?”

Yennefer waves her hand dismissively, “I’m on the trail of something I’ve been on the hunt for many years.”

Jaskier looks again at the corpse near Geralt, “It wasn’t a Griffin was it?”

“No,” she says, “It was something a bit more....personal.”

She puts her hand to her stomach and Jaskier lets out a sigh. Over the past two years since Rinde, the three of them had met up quite a number of times, growing closer in more ways than one. Yennefer had confided in the two of them about her search for fertility. Geralt had never taken Yennefer’s quest very seriously but Jaskier had understood all too well that feeling of something missing in your life. He was just worried that Yennefer looking for some fertility cure was distracting her from the real issue that caused her heart to ache and want for more. 

Jaskier put his hand on Yennefer’s shoulder, “It won’t be enough,” he said and Yennefer seemed to understand what he was talking about because she pushed his hand away. 

“You know nothing,” she said, “I want to be a mother.”

“You? A mother?” Geralt said and Yennefer and Jaskier both turned to him and said simultaneously, “Shut it Geralt!” causing the Witcher to back down in silence, going to harvest the Griffin’s corpse for feathers.

“There’s more than one way to be a mother Yennefer,” Jaskier said, having already had this conversation once before but hoping maybe it would have more of an impact this time around. 

“It’s not simply that,” Yennefer said, “I see my lack of fertility as a failure of my magic. For mages, the use of magic comes at the cost of our fertility. The magic does irreparable damage to our organs. I see overcoming this curse as the ultimate test of my magic and skill. I see my own fertility as my own power.”

Now Geralt comes back towards them, his bag stuffed with feathers, “Yen,” he starts, “you are one of the most terrifyingly powerful women I know, I doubt that breaking the laws of magic will make much of a difference in the end. Sometimes you have to accept your limits.”

“I will accept my limits on the day you accept your utter lack of planning leaves you in situations such as these.”

With that comment, the conversation seems to be over, at least for now. Once Yennefer starts throwing more insults around it signals the end of this line of discussion and Jaskier knows not to push too much. 

“So, what to do now?” Jaskier says.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “I will just open a portal back to town and the two of you idiots can pull it through.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “An...elegant solution.”

“Shove off Geralt,” Yennefer says, “I don’t see you coming up with anything better.”

Geralt whistles and Roach comes trotting over, seemingly none the worse for wear despite running away from a Griffin, and Geralt gives her reins to Yennefer. 

Geralt and Jaskier give each other a long-suffering look before each grabbing on of the Griffin’s front legs.

“Alright, Yennefer!” Jaskier calls out and Yennefer nods before moving her hands in a spiral motion. A portal opens up and Jaskier and Geralt begin dragging the body forward, grunting. It’s interesting, normally Jaskier’s human strength would never match up with Geralt’s but they seem to be struggling and moving the griffin the same amount. Odd. 

Yennefer grunts from behind them, “Please hurry up, I do not have all day and there is nothing quite so exhausting as holding open a portal.”

With an extra grunt of exertion, Jaskier and Geralt pull the corpse through the portal and they end up back in the center of town where assorted townspeople are looking at them with shock. Yennefer comes through a few moments later with Roach and closes the portal behind her. 

Jaskier is breathing quite heavy and while Geralt looks like he is having an easier time of it, pulling a Royal Griffin through a portal is no easy task. 

The alderman of the town comes up to Geralt and looks at the enormous beast with wide eyes. 

“Well, here you are, one royal griffin. Didn’t warn us about that but we felled it all the same,” Jaskier says, staring down the man, “Now I would like the coin promised.”

“Ah yes, right away Witcher, no problem,” the man says, taking out a coin pouch and handing it over to Jaskier. 

Jaskier takes the pouch and turns away, him, Geralt and Yennefer returning to the inn they were staying in. 

Once they are out of earshot Jaskier starts laughing. 

“He thought I was the Witcher! Me! This is too rich.”

Geralt looks Jaskier up and down, “You are holding a crossbow and wearing armor, what else would he assume?”

“Oh but now tales will begin to spread of Jaskier the...the Witcher Bard! I cut down the monsters with one hand and play the lute with the other.”

“Don’t go getting ahead of yourself now,” Yennefer says, “there’s plenty more to being a Witcher than being able to hold a crossbow correctly.”

Jaskier is still smiling when they reach the inn. He holds up three fingers to the innkeeper who brings over three flagons of beer. The three of them sit down at a table with Yennefer and Jaskier on one side and Geralt on the other.

He looks around the relatively empty tavern, “Do you think I should perform tonight?” Jaskier pulls out the coin purse and passes it to Geralt who feels the weight. 

“This is plenty of coin,” Geralt says.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing how you perform,” Yennefer says, “outside of bedroom that is.”

Jaskier blushes a bit but Geralt looks at Yennefer and says, “I can count the number of times you have used a bedroom for sex on one hand.”

Yennefer shrugged, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “What can I say, I make do with what’s available.”

“You are a mage,” Geralt said, “A bed is always available to you, why you never seem to want to use one is a mystery to me.”

Jaskier sighed, caught up in the memories. There were some pleasant moments spent with the sorceress on a sloping roof, in a tree hollow full of rotten wood, on a balcony (someone else’s, to boot), on the railing of a bridge, in a wobbly boat on a rushing river and levitating thirty fathoms above the earth.

The levitation had been something very special. The concentration alone that was necessary to keep the three of them afloat was spectacular. Yennefer was truly a master of her craft. 

And then there was the unicorn. Jaskier had gotten Yennefer the unicorn as a gift from a small shop in Cintra and it was love at first sight. It was expertly stuffed and the exact proportions of a real unicorn, horn and all. For weeks, Yennefer had delighted in coercing Geralt into having sex on the back of it. Geralt hated that unicorn and Jaskier and Yennefer delighted in using it whenever they could. 

Unfortunately, one eventful day the three of them had been engaged on the unicorn and their combined weight had caused the unicorn to collapse underneath them. Geralt rejoiced and Yennefer had cackled but Jaskier had resolved to try and find another one soon. It was an endless source of amusement. 

“Based on your general good cheer, I suppose you aren’t too hurt by the fact that the two of us seem to have drawn you away from your quest Yennefer,” Jaskier said, looking over the table. 

She looked considering for a moment before turning to him, “No, I don’t suppose I mind. I found something to look forward to here after all. Might not be what I unexpected but it’s something I wanted.”

Jaskier put a hand to his chest, “Yennefer, are you saying I am something you wanted?”

“Of course not, I was talking about Geralt,” she said and put a hand across the table onto Geralt’s arm. 

“Wonderful,” Geralt says in a deadpan and Jaskier uses the opportunity to plant a soft kiss on Yennefer’s cheek.

“Well I want you,” he told her, “what a shame our love can never be.”

Yennefer leans her head on Jaskier’s shoulder, “Yes, what a shame.”

In the end, Jaskier decides that he would in fact like to perform for the crowd and once he starts playing and word spreads through the town that Jaskier the bard is performing a crowd of people begin to filter into the tavern. Yennefer and Geralt remain in their corner booth, nursing their beers and talking softly as Jaskier plays. He smiles at the two of them and continues singing. 

Whatever the strange dreams he’s been having, the odd reactions and thought, whatever feeling of loss he is having trouble pinning down, al least Jaskier has Yennefer and Geralt here. They would never let him down. 

* * *

Renfri strikes at the log with her ax, splitting it in two. Theoretically, she could ask Deidre to prepare the wood with magic but there was something fulfilling about the physical labor. It had now been two years since the two of them had made their home at Kaer Seren. With the aid of Deidre’s magic, the stones had been moved and remade. Of course, much of the keep went unused considering it was just the two of them and places such as the library were almost entirely empty but it was in clean, working condition. 

They had rerouted a nearby stream so it ran through the keep and allowed them to have running water. Renfri had the idea from when Julian and she had stayed at Dol Blathanna. Of course, she couldn’t figure out how to replicate the water temperature but running water in and of itself was nice enough. 

Deidre kept her half-mask on most of the time. Renfri had tried to convince her many times it wasn’t necessary but Deidre insisted. Today, however, was a different day indeed. Renfri could feel it in the air. She had refused Deidre’s offer of magical training but Renfri’s latent power of prophecy could still give her premonitions that were often found correct. 

Renfri was relatively sure of the source of this feeling. Eskel would be arriving today. 

After more than a decade of refusing contact with Eskel, Deidre had finally sent a messenger hawk his way a few weeks ago, inviting him to Kaer Seren. She had been very clear to tell no one of this. Eskel had responded back that he could arrive as soon as he could, he was finishing up a contract in the central continent. 

Deidre had grown increasingly nervous. Renfri could see her across the courtyard, pacing back and forth. She was wearing her leather armor that covered most of her limbs, hiding the mage tattoos and her long blond hair was tied back in a braid. The white half mask on her face stood out sharply but there was nothing to be done. 

Renfri sighed and pushed the hair out of her face. She had been keeping it short these past few years, finding it a hassle to constantly tie back. She had shaved the under part of her hair very short but left it long enough on top to tie back into a bun if need be. 

She set the ax down and moved over to Deidre. She caught Deidre’s arms and stopped her pacing. 

“Breathe,” Renfri said, “Everything is going to be fine.”

Deidre looked at Renfri, her hair was a bit messy, pieces falling out of her braid. Renfri tucked one behind her ear. 

“How do you know that?” Deidre asked, for once very nervous. 

“Eskel has never shown himself to be one to act rashly. I’m sure he will simply be happy that you are alive.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Renfri says as she leans in and lifts the mask so she can press a kiss to Deidre’s lips. 

Then Renfri hears the sound of a horse arriving and she sighs before pulling away. Renfri ducked into an alcove of the training yard. 

There was a crunch as someone dismounted from the horse and Renfri watched as Eskel walked into the courtyard. 

He looked good. He had a new jacket over his grey shirt and black breeches. It was red and black striped with metal spikes on the shoulders. He had his swords strapped across his back. However, Renfri could see his eyes darting back and forth, taking in his surroundings. 

The normally stoic man gasped when he saw Deidre and the two of them ran for eachother, the Witcher gathering Deidre in his arms and lifting her up. 

Renfri could hear their conversation clearly and felt like she was watching a rather private moment, but, well, it reminded of her and Julian so poignantly she couldn’t tear herself away. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Eskel said, setting Deidre down. 

She hugged him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder, “I’ve missed you.”

Eskel looked Deidre over, hands moving to either side of her shoulders, “I think you’ve grown since I’ve last seen you, but it doesn’t appear you’ve aged, I was worried…”

“That I would have a human’s lifespan?”

Eskel nodded. Renfri had expected the same thing to be completely honest. However, it seemed that just as mages extend their lifespans through magic, so do girls of the black sun. After all, according to the dragons they were created as a counterbalance to the mages. 

“What’s this” Eskel said, motioning to the mask on Deidre’s face. 

She sighed and reached up, taking the mask off. Eskel showed no outward reaction to the dead flesh, instead deciding to set a hand against Deidre’s cheek. She leaned into the touch and Renfri couldn’t tell, but she expected tears were falling from Deidre’s other eye. 

“We match now Dad,” she said to Eskel and he chuckled a bit. 

“I suppose we do, Wolf Queen, I suppose we do.”

Renfri had never heard Deidre explicitly call Eskel her dad before. She had used father when referencing him to others, but Dad? That was new. She supposed his acceptance had something to do with that.  
Eskel moved away from Deidre a bit and looked around the keep, “This is beautiful,” he said, “I thought Kaer Seren had been destroyed but it appears who have brought it back to life.”

“It’s taken a long time but it was worth it.”

“It’s amazing you were able to complete this on your own.”

Deidre shifted her look so now she was glancing at Renfri’s hiding spot. 

“I wasn’t here alone. I had help.”

Eskel looked confused but waited for Deidre to finish speaking. 

“You can come out now,” she called to Renfri who took it as her cue and walked out of the shadows. 

“Deidre,” Eskel said, drawing his sword and looking confused at Deidre’s relaxed posture, “that’s not really Renfri, she’s dead.”

“No, it’s really her, I brought her back.”

Renfri spoke, her hands raised, “I promise, I’m really me, not a shade or a wraith, just me.”

Eskel shook his head, “There is no way to bring back the dead.”

Deidre faces Eskel, putting her hand on his sword and lowering it, “I didn’t bring her back, I had a mage put her in stasis until I had enough magical talent to heal her.”

“Magical-” Eskel looked from Deidre to Renfri and back again, then, in one motion he sheathed the sword and looked at the two of them. 

“You better have a damn good explanation for this.”

Later, after Deidre had explained the entire tale, from scouring the continent with Renfri’s body to training in Zerrikania to running from assorted pursuers to finally ending up here at Kaer Seren, Eskel looked quite frankly overwhelmed. 

They were sitting Renfri and Deidre on one side and Eskel on the other side of a table in the kitchens, mostly empty bowls of soup in front of them.

“You could have asked for my help,” Eskel said but Deidre shook her head. 

“It was something I had to do myself.”

Unspoken was Deidre’s words, _and I would set foot in Kaer Morhen again the day Geralt of Rivia offers me his head on a platter._

“I am beyond impressed,” Eskel said, “Honestly, I am at a loss for words. I was not even aware of Zerrikania trained mages.”

“Most aren’t,” Deidre said. 

“And you were able to real Renfri from the brink of death but at the cost of half your soul?”

“That’s what we are guessing happened, logistically speaking,” Renfri cut in, “we don’t know for sure.”

“I think this,” Deidre said, “is the physical manifestation of missing half my soul. I don’t mind, it’s a sign of my accomplishments.”

Renfri reached beside her and grabbed Deidre’s hand, holding it tightly. 

“And I am to assume the two of you are…” Eskel started. 

“Yup,” Renfri said, popping the p and leaning over to kiss Deidre on the cheek.

Eskel smiled a warm, genuine smile, “I should have guessed. When you two were younger, well, Julian and I always-”

He cut himself off, glancing at Renfri who waved, “It’s fine,” she said, “it’s better to remember fondly that forget entirely.”

Eskel nodded, “That’s a very wise mindset to have.”

The three of them caught up together and in the end, Eskel offered for Deidre to come with him on a few contracts, to catch up together and get to know eachother once more, “I’m sure your skills with a sword must be a little rusty,” he said. 

Deidre smiled, “I would love to come with you, but don’t worry about my fighting, Renfri is even better than I am and she’s merciless.”

Renfri shrugged, “I don’t play favorites.”

Eskel looked over at her, “Would you like to come as well, I know you have never been on standard Witcher contracts before but it’s nothing worse than monsters you’ve already faced.”

Renfri shook her head, “I have some matters I have been putting off for far too long that need to be taken care of.”

She needed to scope out the current political climate of the continent. This likely meant infiltrating some nearby courts and trying to hear the latest gossip as well as asking Deidre to magically make her hair grow out again. She would need to style it in the latest ladies’ fashion which sadly, at court, did not include an undercut. Renfri didn’t often do spy work, but Julian had taught her well enough if the need ever arose. Besides, it would be good for Deidre to spend some time with her father. 

That night, after Deidre had gone to bed, Renfri went to the room where Eskel was staying. He was awake, going through the potions in his bags and Renfri came in quietly, shutting the door behind her. 

She sat on the bed and looked Eskel in the eye, “I was sparing Deidre the pain earlier but I need you to tell me what happened to Geralt.”

Eskel sighed, “I was worried you might ask this. I purposefully didn’t mention him to Deidre. He’s still alive.”

“Tell me what happened after Blaviken Eskel.”

He set his bag to the side and began to speak, “You will be happy to know that your death wrought terror to Geralt’s life. He became known as the Butcher of Blaviken and for a solid decade held the title of the most hated Witcher on the continent. He could hardly find a contract and came back every winter hungrier than the last.”

“What did he do,” Renfri asked, “that first winter.”

“He looked absolutely wretched,” Eskel said, eyes far away in his memories, “He hadn’t eaten enough in weeks, his clothes were filthy. He wouldn’t stop talking about your death. He blamed himself and honestly, I was concerned for him. It didn’t stop me from punching him in the face, but it did stay my blade which was about all he could have hoped for. I refused to speak to him that Winter, my other brother Lambert and my father Vesemir were there but no amount of pleading could get me to talk to Geralt. Then, one winter night he came to me and told me the full events of Blaviken, of how Stregobor had convinced him of your monstrosity and how he hadn’t meant to kill you, he had reacted on instinct. I couldn’t forgive him, not completely, but he told me that as he held you dying, he couldn’t help but think that in another circumstance, it could have been Deidre in this position. His remorse for his actions and the consequent decade of suffering he has endured have been enough for me to forgive him. I am not asking you to, and I don’t expect it, but you asked for his circumstances and I have told you.”

Renfri was silent. In many ways, she didn’t completely blame Geralt for her death. Yes, he had struck the killing blow but he had been manipulated, same as her. They were victims of their circumstances and if she had just left him, bleeding on the ground instead of lunging for him, well, Geralt might not have shoved her own knife into her chest. At length, Renfri spoke.

“A decade of suffering you said. What happened to change that?”

Eskel sighed, “He met a bard.”

“A bard?”

“That’s what I said, mind you, I’ve never met the man but Geralt found a bard by the name of Jaskier who became his travel companion. He’s been writing songs for Geralt and they have become quite popular. I’m sure you’ve heard Toss a Coin in at least some tavern across the continent.”

Renfri nodded, the tune was incessant and she had assumed Geralt had it commissioned. Apparently she was wrong. Eskel continued.

“The bard has been with Geralt for nearly twenty years now. Last I heard they had fallen into bed together along with some sorceress. Geralt hasn’t brought either of them to visit the keep and getting him to talk about his personal life is like pulling teeth from a cockatrice but we know enough. He seems happy again.”

“I suppose I can’t begrudge him that,” Renfri says. She ducks her head, “I wish Julian were here to see what we’ve done with the keep.”

Eskell looked around, “You mean to tell me that Julian was a Griffin? All these years and I’ve finally figured it out. He didn’t use much magic for a Griffin.”

“He adapted after he took me in. My aura didn’t allow for his usual fighting style.”

“Julian was a great man. He would have loved it here.”

Renfri looks at Eskel and they share a moment of grief for Julian. 

“I know,” Renfri says, “doesn’t stop me from wishing he could see it in person.”

Eskel pokes her in her chest, “It’s cliche, but as long as we remember the ones we love, they never really leave us. Julian is with us still.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. Okay, I am actually getting close to the end of this fic. I think I have around 4 more chapters and then I will be done. It's a little bit scary but honestly, I am so excited. 
> 
> I didn't plan for this to become a Geraskefer fic and I've changed the tags accordingly but hey, it happened. I wanted more Yennefer and I wanted a nice healthy relationship so I wrote it myself. If you can't tell, I am a plot-driven writer first and a romance writer second. Please let me know if u have any fun headcanons for the three of them, I would love to hear about them! 
> 
> Maybe if the readers want it enough I might write a side story that's a little more explicit that includes all the sexscapades I allude to this chapter. 
> 
> Also, HAHA Eskel is back and he's meeting up Renfri and Deidre again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get hammered, Geralt has no singing talent, and Yennefer is on the trail of a decades-old mystery. 
> 
> (Also this is now a part of a series and there will be a sequel so subscribe to the series if you want to keep following as that comes out)

Jaskier was woken up by Yennefer pushing him out of bed. 

“Get up,” she said, “We have somewhere to be.”

His head was fuzzy from sleep and he had never been a morning person. Unfortunately, both Yennefer and Geralt loved to wake up at the crack of dawn. It was an unfortunate situation which often resulted in him waking up late to find that Yennefer and Geralt were already ready to go on whatever adventure they had planned. 

“Where do we have to go?” Jaskier asked, still half asleep. 

“Mahakam,” Geralt replied, packing his armor into a bag. 

Jaskier shot straight up and began immediately searching the floor for his clothes. 

“It’s that time of the year already? Oh, lords, I need to make sure I have everything,” he was wildly searching the room for his papers, his books, “I need to record this. It’s a historic moment Geralt! You two almost let me sleep through it.”

Jaskier was frantically shoving papers into his bag. Every twenty-five years the dwarves of Mahakam allowed humans into their walls to get absolutely hammered. Jaskier was, well, he supposed he didn’t know his actual age but he certainly couldn’t have been old enough in 1235 to have attended the last ale festival. As well, they very rarely allowed humans in, having a limited number of seats. Of course, with a Witcher and a Mage at his side, Jaskier would most certainly be allowed in and he would have a chance to record this historic event. Fantastic. 

The three of them were currently staying at Yennefer’s house in Vengerberg. It was nice, staying with Yennefer. Between Geralt’s contracts and Jaskier’s teaching schedule at Oxenfurt, the three of them rarely had as much time together as they used to when Jaskier was a younger man. Not that you would be able to tell through the passage of time. He was constantly getting compliments on his look and he supposed it must be due to his regimented skin-care. Of course, with two immortals as partners, time did have a bad habit of simply slipping away. Which led to his current predicament. He had forgotten the Ale Festival was today.

Jaskier pulled on a green outfit he had been saving for a special occasion, and what occasion could be more special than this? He slung his lute across his back and grabbed his satchel full of notes and papers. Yennefer was dressed immaculately in a midnight blue dress and Geralt was wearing the outfit he had bought him for Pavetta’s betrothal feast. Jaskier felt a twinge in his heart at the memory of Pavetta but he steadfastly ignored it. It had been nearly three years since her passing. 

Once he had everything, well, nearly everything, Yennefer opened a portal and the three of them stepped through. They found themselves at the Lainbridge. Every other time of the year, there was no bridge between Mahakam and the rest of the continent, merely a deep canyon, possibly a mile wide and nearly as deep. 

Now, however, the large stone bridge practically sliced across the cavern it stood on. It seemed so thin from the distance they were at but as they got closer, Jaskier could see the towering figures of stone that stood guard at the bridge. The bridge was absolutely crowded with races from across the continent, humans, dwarves, elves, werebubbs. At one point, Jaskier even thought he spotted a fae flying over the canyon. 

There was a line of people waiting to be let onto the bridge but Geralt strode past everyone, Yennefer and him following close behind. The crowds parted for the Witcher, conversation dying as they walked past. Perhaps a few decades ago, seeing a Witcher wouldn’t be so rare a thing, but nowadays the few Witchers that were left stayed to themselves, solitary people. So when a Witcher did deign to let himself be seen in public, people took notice. Especially people here, where there wasn’t a non-human bias. Witchers were almost mythological in a sense. A dying breed. 

Jaskier clutched Yennefer’s hand a little tighter, feeling her squeeze back. He would have done the same to Geralt but the Witcher was walking a ways ahead and would certainly not appreciate Jaskier’s comfort at this moment. They hadn’t talked too much about the purges. Something about it never sat right with Jaskier. He knew there was more than what the public knew, perhaps even what Geralt knew. 

They walked across the bridge quickly, not wanting to linger where any prying eyes could see them. As they moved deeper into the dwarves’ territory the prying eyes grew less. Clearly, the older dwarves were far less impressed with Witchers. Jaskier watched as some of the tension vanished from Geralt’s shoulders. Clearly he liked the feeling of anonymity. 

The hall where the festivities were held was large and could hold hundreds at a time. There were large Cedar beams that curved upwards to meet in the center, forming a pointed semi-circle. The entire hall seemed golden with the glow of so many torches and fires. Massive stacks of barrels of Ale covered the entire back wall. It was truly a sight to see. 

Something about the formation, the hall, set off a sense of deja vu with Jaskier. It felt...familiar in a way he couldn’t place. It was odd. No human scholar had been in Mahakam for centuries, he had never seen pictures or read about it in a book. It must be another one of those pesky memories trying to slip through. Damnnit. Jaskier thought he had that more under control nowadays. 

He had struggled, the past few years, to find a balance of his past coming back to him in the form of odd reactions and intrusive thoughts. Jaskier had taken up the process of thinking through his own thought processes more carefully. It had left him just a touch more hesitant than before, but he wanted to be sure his reactions were based upon what he believed in the moment, not some ghost of his past. Not that Jaskier was shying away from his past as much, no, he had outgrown that youthful fancy some years ago. He was very confident in who he was and Jaskier was quite certain now that no matter his past, he would be able to face it head-on. 

All that was left was his past finally opening up to him. No matter what he tried, meditation, the healer in nearby towns, a bauble at Yennefer’s nothing worked. It was simply shadows. Jaskier was hesitant to ask Geralt and Yennefer for help. Geralt was aware of the basics of his amnesia, having seen the scars on his back some years ago and Jaskier had told Yennefer soon after they had gotten together. But still, something held him back from asking them for help for recovering his memories. It was an old insecurity about being the weak one he supposed. 

It was difficult, having a legendary mage and witcher as partners, but every day with them made his heart a little lighter and he didn’t really mind being the one who had to be most often protected when it came to the adventures they would go on. It was just, well, asking for their help regarding his memories might just be a burden to them. They weren’t supposed to carry his past. Maybe he was getting too into his own head. Fuck. 

As if sensing the shift in his mood, Geralt looked across at Jaskier and gently nudged his leg from under the table. While Jaskier had been lost in thought, the three of them had sat down at a table in their normal positioning, Yennefer sitting besides Jaskier while Geralt sat across the table. 

“Everything alright Jaskier?” Geralt asked, eyes full of concern. 

Jaskier shook his head, no time for maudlin thoughts now, there was a festival to record. 

He put on a sunny smile and brought out a quill and his notebook, “Just gathering scales from a dragon Geralt, nothing to worry about.”

Geralt nodded and Yennefer raised her hand to a dwarf who was taking orders and held up two fingers. The dwarf moved towards the glasses and Yennefer shook her head from across the hall. Slowly, the dwarf moved towards the barrels and Yennefer nodded, shaking her money pouch. Wait, that wasn’t hers-

“Yennefer!” Jaskier cried, reaching out his hand in vain, trying to stop the sorceress from spending all his cash on two damn barrels of dwarven ale, “That’s my money.”

She held it out of reach, taunting, “and you have the most of it out of the three of us darling so I think you will be paying for it this time.”

Jaskier gave up and crossed his arms, “Just because I am the most successful here doesn’t mean you get to take advantage of my good fortune.”

“Actually I think that’s exactly what it means,” Yennefer said, smirking. 

Jaskier looked across the table to Geralt who shrugged and looked anywhere but Jaskier’s eyes. 

He threw up his hands, “Fine then, but I get to drink as much as I want here, even if it means dipping into your barrels.” 

Of course, he would never be able to drink as much as Yennefer and Geralt. He didn’t have that magically enhanced metabolism. But he was sure he could try and survive it. 

Yennefer laughed and pecked him on the cheek. Then the same server from earlier hefted two barrels onto the table. 

“Don’t drink it all at once,” he said with a taunting smile and then left. 

Geralt, the bloody bastard, hefted the barrel up in one go and began to drink, making eye contact with the server. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. That was...quite bold of Geralt. Dwarven Ale had quite a kick to it and while Jaskier had seen Geralt drink alarming amounts before he would not be able to stay sober much longer at this rate. 

Meanwhile, Yennefer had put a drink stop into the other barrel and was already handing Jaskier a large pint of Ale. 

“Should we stop him?” Jaskier asked, looking at Geralt. 

Yennefer held her ale in one hand and tapped her chin with the other, “I say let him learn from his mistakes.”

Geralt set the barrel down and looks over at the two of them. He seems to have cleaned through about a quarter of the barrel. 

“How are you feeling, oh wise Witcher?” Jaskier says. 

“Fine,” Geralt grunts, although he is having trouble focusing on the two of them. 

Jaskier laughs and leans onto Yennefer’s shoulder, “He says he’s fine.”

Yennefer laughs and stands up, Jaskier titling as his perch leaves, “Then I suppose he should be good enough to dance!”

Music has started up from a lively band in the corner. Yennefer grabs Jaskier’s hand and they begin twirling to the music, Geralt’s slightly unfocused eyes following them. 

Jaskier and Yennefer are pulling together and apart, spinning and twisting in time to the music. He spins her out, her dress twirling along the floor, and then pulls her back, catching her in his arms. They are both classically trained dancers and that fact is abundantly clear. The two of them move deftly together, in and out, performing complicated ballroom moves. Jaskier holds onto Yennefer’s waist and raises her up, moving her in an arch. 

The music changes to a slower tune and they stop their spinning in favor of Yennefer putting her arms on Jaskier’s shoulders and his hands on her waist.

“Dancing might be the only time I would call you graceful,” Yennefer says, smiling. Her face is just a touch flushed and Jaskier is sure he matches her. 

“Oh, I’m almost certain I could find another time,” Jaskier states as he steals a quick kiss from the beautiful mage. 

Then Geralt is standing there, a bit recovered from his heavy drinking earlier and Jaskier finds himself enveloped in the Witcher’s arms as Geralt spins him away from Yennefer. 

“It’s my turn for a dance with Yen,” Geralt says with a smile. 

Jaskier crosses his arms and pouts, “Am I not a good enough dancer for you Geralt?”

Geralt laughs and with his arms full of Yen, kisses Jaskier before moving away to send a laughing Yen into a gentle twirl in place, “I believe that you wanted to attend this festival to take notes? I don’t see much note-taking happening.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Fuck. He ran back over to the table, Geralt and Yennefer’s laughter following him. He grabbed his notebook and quill and began to make his way around the room. 

There seemed to be a commotion near the head table. Jaskier smiled. Perfect. It looked like a contingent from Skellige. He looked around, seeing if he recognized any of them. He doubted Eist or Mousesack would be here, but who knows. He would love to see them again and Geralt likely missed Mousesack as well. 

None of the faces look familiar which is a shame but Jaskier walks over any and the shouting voices become clearer. It appears one of the sea-faring Skelligans is shouting at none other than the Cheif Elder, Brouver Hogg himself. 

“You blasted dwarves!” The man is shouting, “Give us the chance and we could outdrink you bastards by barrels!”

A cheer goes up from the Skellige crowd and Jaskier sits on the edge of a bench and begins writing down what is happening frantically. Someone challenging Brouver Hogg to a drinking contest? Unthinkable. He hadn’t even known you could do that. 

Brouver Hogg smiles and waves a hand and some dwarves bring out massive barrels to the Skelligan’s table. 

“I assure you,” the Chief Elder says, “if you are using this as an excuse to get free ale, your hangovers will not be thanking you come the morning.”

Then another dwarf begins to slam the table, counting down, “3, 2, 1, GO!”

Then Brouver Hogg is unashamedly hefting a barrel and drinking straight from it similar to Geralt earlier and three Skelligans are lifting another barrel and tilting it to pour the ale out into cups. But their faces are suddenly crestfallen. From the second Brouver Hogg had started drinking straight from the barrel they stood no chance. 

The Chief Elder finished it off with time to spare and he looked at the Skellige Party with a laugh, “It appears you have lost gentleman, but I implore you to finish what you have order and pay for it as well, lest my hospitality become less favorable.”

The Chief Elder then turned and took his seat back at the head of the table. Jaskier was smiling like mad and turned when he felt a weight settle in behind him. He looked up to see Geralt sitting on the table above him and the Witcher shifted so Jaskier was on the bench and Geralt was on the table, legs at the side of Jaskier’s shoulders. 

Yennefer sat down at Jaskier’s right side and leaned against Geralt’s leg. The Witcher leaned down so his arms were resting on his knees and his head was on top of Jaskier’s.

“What happened here?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier could feel his voice rumbling onto his hair. 

Geralt was a bit looser than normal so Jaskier assumed he must have dipped into the ale again. Personally, he was trying to keep a clear head so he could remember this all later. He looked over at the Skelligans, now completely sloshed, fall over one another. Jaskier had an all-too-human constitution and he did not want to test that against Dwarven Ale. 

“The Skellige Party challenged Brouver Hogg to a drinking contest.”

“Ah,” Yennefer said, “Not the wisest decision then.”

“Not by half,” Jaskier looked down at his notebook where he was drawing the scene playing out, the barrel hefted over Brouver Hogg’s head like a trophy of war. 

Geralt reached down and snatched the notebook to see the drawing better. 

“You brute!” Jaskier cried, “The ink is still wet, I swear on every god Geralt if you mess this drawing up….”

Yennefer sighed and waved her hand a bit, a breeze ruffling through the air, “There, now the ink is all dried. Let Geralt look, it’s very rare he’s this....touchy.”

Jaskier groaned and slumped further into Geralt’s legs. It was true, Geralt was not normally the most touch-fond of people. He supposed it was due to a combination of feeling comfortable with more non-humans around, him and Yennefer being here, and the alcohol that created the perfect combination of comfort and safety that made Geralt feel like he could relax. Jaskier really ought to take advantage of this situation and let a happy Geralt look through his notebook. 

He wondered if Geralt was like this when he went home to Kaer Morhen. After 20 years of traveling, and almost a decade together, Jaskier had still never been to the Wolf-Witchers’ keep. It was not as though Geralt had discouraged Jaskier from coming. Neither of them had simply ever offered. Jaskier spent his winters in Cintra and Geralt liked the time alone. However, he thought it might be nice, to see Geralt unguarded. To spend some time alone. Yennefer could always portal in. It might be nice. Ciri might understand his being gone for a Winter perhaps. Maybe next year. 

It was strange. Jaskier had always assumed that with his human lifespan he would be rushing to know Geralt as quickly as possible. Humans only lived what, 100, 120 years? He must be about to hit his prime soon, he couldn’t be older than 40. Somehow, he felt like he had plenty of time, like he could go as slow as possible. Jaskier shook the feeling off in time to see someone else from Skellife stand up. 

How were they not all passed out drunk at this point? Then he recognized that grey hair, that stupid green and gold striped tunic. Fucking Hell. Draig Bon-Dhu. He was an upstart bard from Skellige that Jaskier had met a few times. He thought he was oh-so fantastic simply because he had technical skill. The man wouldn’t know creativity if it bit him on the goddamn ass. Jaskier felt his thoughts turning murderous as the absolute pillock stood up and holding his lute above his head began to speak. 

“I alone of all the world's  [ bards ](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Bard) can flawlessly perform the infamously demanding chorus to "The Virgins of  [ Vicovaro ](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Vicovaro) " after downing a fifth of Mahakaman spirit.”

Then he began to strum on his lute and Jaskier saw red. That bastard saw him here, he had to. This was quite literally a direct challenge to his craft. Jaskier stood up abruptly, knocking Geralt backward a bit and Yen, who was dozing just a touch on Geralt’s leg snapped up and looked around. 

Jaskier grabbed the nearest flask, which happened to be Geralt’s, downed it in three gulps, and swung his lute around, preforming a complicated riff. 

“Oh truly?” Jaskier asked, a smirk on his face, “the only bard?”

The crowd let out a cheer. A battle of the bards. This was always a fun event than got the crowds going and the people cheering. It was sure to be an exciting and thrilling time for everyone involved. 

_ There once was a made from Vicovaro, tight at night,  _

_ she’d be loose come ‘morrow, early in the morning! _

_ Another maid from Vivavaro, ploughed with pleasure  _

_ and drank from sorrow, till early in the morning! _

Jaskier laughed as he noticed Geralt singing along. The Witcher’s gravely voice fit well with the song and his slightly drunken lilt only added to the comedic effect. Geralt had a nice voice, but a musician he was not. The poor man was completely offbeat and Yennefer was practically cackling from beside Geralt. Jaskier smiled over at the two of them. He truly loved those two. 

_ Our third maid was not demanding, gave it up  _

_ to any man standing, early in the morning! _

The song was particularly complicated as it was best performed drunk and as such was difficult to get right. As Jaskier spend up the chorus, Draig Bon-Dhu found himself unable to keep up and ended up throwing his lute to the ground and stalking away. A cheer rose from the crowd and Jaskier bowed before heading back to the table where Yennefer pulled him in for a long and languid kiss. He pressed into her, his lute getting set down on the bench to her right. 

He sank down to the ground on his knees and Yennefer pulled him closer, holding his face in her hands as she kissed him. The crowd cheered again but when someone yelled about a second show, Jaskier reluctantly pulled away. 

Jaskier felt himself become drunker and drunker as drink after drink was handed to him in congratulations. He began pawning off most of them to Geralt as the room started undulating which meant the Witcher was practically as drunk as Jaskier now. Yennefer wasn’t far behind. The three of them sat, absolutely hammered, in a pile leaning against a wall in the corner of the room. They giggled and watched as all the festival-goers wandered around and danced. He brought out his lute but he could’t seem to form his fingers into the shape he needed to play and instead was just strumming across the open notes, singing nonsense words. 

His head was just the right amount of fuzzy and he draped himself across Geralt’s outstretched legs, lute close to his chest. Just as Jaskier had accepted that the excitement of the night was over with, the doors burst open. Jaskier sloppily rolled over lute falling to the floor with a clang. He let out a wince. Jaskier, now on his stomach, looked up to the front of the hall where, fuck, a large group of Rock Trolls had just entered. 

They had large, hulking orange and green-tinged bodies, with grey sharp rocks covering the tops of their arms and shoulders. On their backs, they hunched down with the weight of what looked like a large boulder, grey and looming. The one closest to a table let out a cry of anger and flipped the table with a roar. 

“Brouver Hogg!” The troll cried, “You forgot to us to this festival of merriment and peacemaking. As such, we have arrived to destroy this oh-so fucking wonderful event of yours. Get ‘em!”

With that final cry and without even a word in return from the dwarves the rock trolls began to trash the festival, smashing open barrels of Ale, turning over tables, throwing food. People began drunkenly stumbling away in terror, running further into Mahakam for the rooms they would be staying in for the night. 

He heard a war cry from the Kaedweni table and watched as a man drew his sword and started hacking at the rock trolls. He was able to get a few pieces off but most of the trolls seemed deeply unimpressed. 

Geralt was trying to get and he was yelling something at Jaskier. He sat up onto his knees to try and see Geralt better. The Witcher was up but swaying and he had his hand held out. What did he want?

Then Geralt’s voice cut through the commotion to reach Jaskier’s ears, “Wive Tear’s Jaskier! Purple!”

Oh shit. Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s pack and began rummaging around, handing him the potion as soon as he saw it. The witcher downed the potion and his eyes bled black. Then Geralt straightened up as he became sober. He shook off his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and began to walk towards the rock trolls. Sometimes, the best way to fight against something that could break your swords was with simply your fists. 

Jaskier’s head was still spinning but he wanted to help, was there anything he could do? He looked over to Yennefer who was muttering spells to herself in an attempt to sober up. She stood up, fire burning in her eyes, and began to well, set the rock trolls on fire. It would distract them long enough for them to stop destroying things and other drunken warriors would pile on top of them. Yennefer also started throwing the trolls across the room. 

He stood up on shaky legs, his head already felt clearer and he didn’t know if his constitution was just stronger than he thought or if the adrenaline was causing him to sober up faster. 

Yennefer looked behind her, keeping Jaskier in her eye line. Fuck, what could he do? He tried to recreate that feeling from the banquet in Cintra all those years ago, that feeling of his body taking over, of his mind taking a backseat but nothing happened. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He felt his hand reach towards Geralt’s pack and when he looked down he had a potion in hand. Jaskier felt an unbearable urge to drink it. That didn’t make any sense. Any of Geralt’s potions would kill a human. Why the hell was his body trying to literally get him to poison himself now?

A rock troll came close to the two of them and Yen growled before pulling out a dagger. She ran at the troll and then slid to the ground, raising the dagger and cutting into the troll’s soft and fleshy belly underneath. Good. 

There weren’t many rock trolls left. There were a few injured being carried out by the others and overall the placed was absolutely trashed but order was being restored. It appeared the rock trolls had gotten what they wanted. The place was absolutely trashed. Damnnit. 

Geralt walked over a small cut on his forehead, blood running down his face but a smile across it. 

Jaskier let out a curse when he saw who was following Geralt. Chief Elder Brouver Hogg himself. 

Geralt went to stand besides Jaskier, that stupid fucking dopey grin still on his face as the Chief Elder began to speak to the three of them. 

“Am to understand you two are the partners of Geralt of Rivia?”

Yennefer and Jaskier both nodded and the Chief Elder smiled. 

“Then I owe you a great debt! Thanks to the Witcher, the damage was far mitigated from what it might have been and I understand I owe a debt to you as well, mage, for the spontaneous combustion of many of our foes.”

Brouver Hogg cast as eye over Jaskier, and there was something of recognition in his eyes although his expression didn’t change an inch. 

“And you...bard. Thank you for your wonderful performance. It’s always nice to hear the sweet sound of music. As a gift, I invited you to stay in the suites we normally use for dignitaries, at least for the night until you recover from the night’s events.”

Jaskier felt his eyes light up. A chance to study dwarven living spaces! To sleep in a comfortable bed! Maybe there was a library he could look at…

Before Yennefer or Geralt could get a word in, Jaskier put his hand on his heart and bowed, the dwarven sign of accepting a contract, “We thank you for your generous offer,” Jaskier said. 

He felt more than saw Yennefer roll her eyes. The three of them went to leave but once Geralt and Yennefer moved away, The Chief Elder grabbed his arm with force. 

“One moment, Bard,” he said and Jaskier stayed behind, hesitant but not afraid, he waved Geralt and Yennefer ahead. 

“Yes Chief Elder?”

“You are invited back here anytime you know?”

Jaskier was surprised at this invitation but nodded, “Thank you.”

“I refer to our past agreement of course.”

“...our past agreement?”

“There is no need to hide here,” the Chief Elder said with a warm smile. 

Jaskier was at a loss for words. Somehow, after all these years, he found someone who apparently seemed to recognize him and it was the Chief Elder of Mahakam? What in Metilele’s tits?

“I’m afraid I don’t know the bargain you are referring to, Chief Elder.”

Brouver Hogg searched his face and then, apparently not finding what he was looking for, stepped away and his smile dropped, “It seems I was mistaken.”

He waved his hand and began to turn away, signaling the end of their short conversation. 

“I hope The Nightingale finds you again, Bard. I hate to see you so lost.”

With these enigmatic words, Jaskier is led by the guards to the rooms which are lavish and opulent. There is a large fire roaring in a hearth opposite a very comfortable looking bed. 

The second the guards left, Jaskier began taking off his shoes and undoing the outer layers of his clothes. He was exhausted. Yennefer and Geralt had already done the same. He tried to push the words of the Chief Elder out of his head by focusing on the wild night. 

“That was amazing,” Jaskier said, still a bit breathless from all the events of the night, “If this is what happens every festival I understand why it’s only every 25 years now.”

Yennefer held up a hand, from where she was lying on the bed hand over her eyes, already curled up under the blankets, “Please, I beg of you Jaskier, be quiet, I had to sober myself up with magic, a most unfortunate process that gives me the worst fucking headache.”

Jaskier grimaced and moved over to the fire to let Yennefer rest. All magic comes at a cost, and for this, well, it apparently gave you a hangover. 

Geralt comes to sit down on the floor beside him. The two of them sit there, side by side as Jaskier soaks in the warmth of the fire. 

He’s heard of the Nightingale before. It hadn’t come to him at first but now Jaskier remembers. Filavandrel had told him of the Nightingale 20 years ago now. A Witcher. He had read about the man too. At the time, Jaskier hadn’t known Geralt well enough to feel comfortable asking about the rogue Witcher. Now, however…

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, voice soft, “I have a question.”

Geralt let out a questioning hum and Jaskier continued. 

“Well, it’s just, I heard someone during the festival mention a Witcher. I was wondering if you knew anything about him?”

“There are many Witchers left, it’s likely I do.”

“Have you heard of The Nightingale Prince?”

It was as if Jaskier had flipped a switch. Geralt’s realized posture went away and his back became as straight as an arrow. He moved up a bit and looked over at Jaskier, his eyes were heavy with what seemed to be guilt, his face twisted in a grimace. 

“Heard of him,” Geralt said gruffly, not looking Jaskier in the eyes, “Never met him.”

“Where was he from?”

“Don’t know, no one knows.”

“But why-”

“Damnnit Jaskier!” Geralt says, slamming his hand on the floor, his voice rising, “He was a Witcher once, a powerful one well versed in sorcery who made it his mission to wipe out mages. He was the personal protector of a Princess of Creyden but was killed defending her in Agren. There. Is that everything your capricious heart desired?”

Geralt sounded hateful, venomous. Jaskier reached his hand out on put in on Geralt’s shoulder. He was trembling slightly. 

“This is personal for you,” Jaskier said, “Why? You said you never met him.”

“I...I haven’t.” Geralt said, “It’s complicated.”

“You can tell me.”

“The Princess he protected? Her name was Renfri.”

Jaskier gasped. Oh gods. He knew the story of Blaviken. Everyone did. All these years and he had never asked Geralt to tell him the story. He hadn’t known. 

“Oh Geralt, I’m so sorry.”

Geralt turned his head away from Jaskier and began to speak, slowly and hesitantly.

“Her name was Renfri and she was just 18. A child still. She had spent her entire life on the run and she had only been without Nightingale for a year. I didn’t know this at the time, but well, one of my brothers knew him and, after...after everything he told me the whole story, or at least most of it. When I met her, she was practically a warlord, running her own gang of bandits and thieves. I was given a contract by a mage to kill her, but I refused. I met with Renfri and urged her to leave Blaviken but she...she didn’t leave.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier and there was a pleading in his eyes.

“She didn’t leave Jaskier and then she had a girl in her arms and a knife to her throat and I fought. I shouldn’t have fought but I did and I thought I was being noble, choosing the lesser of two evils but in the end all that happened was I watched a girl bleed out in the streets for the pleasure of a twisted man.”

Jaskier can’t focus on what Geralt it saying. There’s that ringing in his ears again. He remembers Filvandrel’s words:  _ The Butcher of Blaviken is a dangerous man, even if you do not know the dangers. He has hurt people. He has committed crimes you cannot understand the severity of _ . 

He holds Geralt’s hand tight, tighter, squeezing. 

The Witcher continues talking, “I couldn’t save her. I wanted to but I couldn’t and….fuck. She was protected by a Witcher. A man who died to save her and I threw his sacrifice away. I betrayed one of my own. I killed her. I held her as she died.”

Something in Jaskier grows angry at that sentence. How dare Geralt claim to hold her? To care for her? She called out for him in her final moments, Geralt meant nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Then Geralt lets out a sudden sob. It breaks through Jaskier’s thoughts and he looks over to see Geralt trying not to cry. Tears keep slipping past his eyes even as he tries not to make a noise.

“I killed a little girl Jaskier. I killed her and I hate myself for it every day. I hate myself because I’m a monster and every day you and Yennefer pretend I’m worth something and I’m fucking not Jaskier, I’m fucking not.”

Somethings inside Julian breaks. Geralt has suffered. He has been in pain and he has suffered and at some point, it has to break. At some point, Geralt has to stop carrying Renfri’s death like a weight around his neck and bury it. Geralt has suffered, now it is time to heal. 

Jaskier grabs both of Geralt’s hands and turns so they are facing eachother. He looks deep in Geralt’s golden eyes and says, “I think, no I know, that your pain, your hatred, can’t last forever. You have to forgive yourself Geralt.”

Geralt shook his head, trying to look away but Jaskier would let him, tilting his head up so their eye contact remained, “I can’t forgive myself.”

“Then I forgive you. I forgive you for what you’ve done.”

Geralt scowled, “You have no right.”

“And you have no right to be the only one carrying this burden of grief! How dare you assume that you of all people are the monster? How dare you assume that you alone can suffer? In fact, I would go so far as to say that your pity is shameful Geralt. To put yourself at fault for every step of Renfri’s death is selfish. Nightingale died, Renfri began to kill innocents, the mage was corrupt. You alone are not at fault. Taking it all onto yourself is absolving everyone else of their sins. They don’t deserve that luxury. So yes, Geralt of Rivia, I have the right to fucking forgive you because no one else will.”

Now Jaskier was crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and he brought their foreheads together and they rested there as Geralt and he cried. There was a feeling of absolution, of resolve. Their sobs died down but they sat there still, gross and silent, breathing together. 

“Do you think, if Nightingale was alive, he would forgive me for killing his daughter?”

Geralt’s voice was soft and cut through the silence. Julian didn’t move but he responded, feeling the medallion on his chest warming.

“I think, if he were here, he would give you a chance.”

* * *

Yennefer woke up to see Jaskier and Geralt sleeping in front of the fire. She yawned and got out of bed, padding over to the door, planning on asking someone for a breakfast platter. She opens the door to find the Chief Elder staring at her. 

He looks her over and nods, “The mage. Good. Follow me.”

The dwarf begins walking down the hall and Yennefer follows, confused. Why on earth would the Chief Elder need to speak to her?

“Before we begin, how long have you known the bard?”

Yennefer started a bit, she wasn’t expecting Jaskier to be the center of the conversation. 

“Around a decade now.”

“And in that time, has he talked about his past?”

Yennefer looks over at the Chief Elder with suspicion. Jaskier well, he doesn’t talk about his past for a number of reasons, first among them being he doesn’t remember much of it. They don’t talk about it and Jaskier doesn’t bring it up. Yennefer respects his privacy. She elects to tell the truth, “No.”

“I suggest, for your sake and his you try looking into it.”

“We wouldn’t know where to start.”

Brouver Hogg stops and runs his hand over his beard. He closes his eyes in deliberation then looks over to Yennefer. 

“I suggest looking into Kaer Seren,” he says at length, “that’s all I feel comfortable enough to say. I have no wish to divulge secrets I haven’t been permitted to share but this...this doesn’t feel right.”

With that, Brouver Hogg walked away, leaving Yennefer behind. Kaer Seren, that name sounds so familiar. The Griffin Witchers! Her Grimoire! She hadn’t even looked at that book in years, it was shoved deep into a trunk somewhere in her house. No one knew what had happened to the Griffins or where their Keep had been but it was clear Yennefer was going to have to find out. She could feel destiny written all over this. It was far too coincidental. The fact that she owned a Griffin’s Grimoire. The strange questions of Brouver Hogg, and at the center of it all, Jaskier. 

The trip back to her hours felt far away. She kept up a polite conversation with both Jaskier and Geralt but the two of them were also clearly lost in their own thoughts. They parted ways quickly once everyone had gathered their gear, Geralt and Jaskier off on a contract once again. Yennefer couldn’t escape that screaming notion of Kaer Seren. 

Now alone, Yennefer began to search for the Grimoire but couldn’t find a trace of it. She tore apart her trunks, searching. She found it tucked away in a trunk filled with old dresses she hadn’t worn in years. Yennefer clutched the green leather tightly but immediately noticed something was wrong. The medallion that had been inlaid on the cover for as long as she could remember was missing. Shit. 

* * *

Jaskier sighed as he made his way up to Cintra’s Palace once more. He was here earlier than normal. Since last year, gods Jaskier couldn’t tell, Yennefer, his and Geralt’s relationship had been feeling a bit..frayed. The last time he could remember them being truly comfortable around each other was the Ale Festival and that was nearly a year ago. 

Yennefer had retreated a bit, she was researching something that she was keeping a complete secret from him and Geralt. It left a strain and in turn, Geralt was quicker to anger and had a shorter temper. Jaskier too found himself overcompensating by being louder, more present. Even their traveling in the summer months didn’t lessen this strain, they got on each other’s nerves worse than ever and if Jaskier hadn’t ducked out at the end of the fall months instead of the beginning of winter, well, who knows what might have happened. 

The worst part was Jaskier had been trying to work up the courage to ask Geralt to take him to Kaer Morhen but with their recent tiffs, he hadn’t thought it a good idea. 

It was fine, Jaskier was here with Ciri now and it would all be good. His little princess was 12 now and wasn’t that an occasion to celebrate. 

He nodded to the guards as he walked into the palace, a smile on his face. There was something different in the air. The guards didn’t smile back. Not a single wave. When he entered the palace, Calanthe stood there, still as stone. 

Her arms were crossed. Her face was dark. She was dressed in armor.

Jaskier kept that smile plastered on his face, “Hello darling…” He began but was cut off with a raised hand from Calanthe. 

“When, Jaskier,  _ bard _ ,” she spit out, “were you planning to tell me that you were more than simply the barker of the White Wolf. That you were his lover? Was it when you stole my granddaughter out from under my nose? When you whisked her away to parts unknown for your witcher?”

He stopped, “How could you think that? I have been with Geralt for years and I would never consider taking Ciri away from you.”

Calanthe laughed, a cold laugh. 

“Truly? Well then, you mean to tell me you haven’t been grooming my granddaughter for the day she runs away? Escapes from me?”

“Never! I promise!” Jaskier cried.

“LIAR!” Calanthe yelled her voice echoing, “I invite you into my home, I grieve with you and then I see my grandaughter run into the streets in disguise, she tells me stories of Wolf Princesses brought to mountaintops and Nightingales in clouds. All clever stories of princesses stolen away. How long have you been grooming my granddaughter to escape, you bastard?”

“You misunderstand, those are nothing more than stories,” Jaskier tries to reason. They were stories, he didn’t mean anything by them. Ciri seemed to enjoy them. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a year. What was Calanthe doing?

“I want to believe you, I do,” Calanthe is saying.

“You can, you can. I have been here for you for years, I would never harm Ciri.”

“Harm her? No, I doubt you would. Steal her? I have my doubts. A spy came to me and mentioned a Wolf Keep in the mountains. I can’t take the chance.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying, bard, that I need you to leave. I would imprison you but out of respect for our many years of friendship I am giving you the chance to leave intact and free.”

Jaskier is shaking his head, this can’t be right, this can’t be true. Why now? Why after all this time?

“Can I...can I say goodbye?”

She scoffs, although there is a grief in her eyes Jaskier cannot fully understand right now, “And give you the chance to infect her thoughts even further? Doubtful.”

Now he is trying to hold back tears and voice quiet he says, “Please, Calanthe, don’t do this.”

She clenches her teeth and turns away, the guards raising their swords.

“What about the child surprise? The magic?”

“Mousesack has informed me he can stabilize the bond himself now. I made it clear that otherwise, I would keep you here, imprisoned and he readily agreed.”

He can’t do this, he takes a step forward and the guards take a step towards him, causing him to stop in his tracks. Jaskier reaches out an arm, then drops it. 

“Please…”

Calanthe turns towards him one last time, and Jaskier will never forget how she looked at that moment. She was resigned, she was tired, she had seen far too many battles for far too little reward, she had been betrayed but survived, she was regal, she was the Lioness of Cintra. 

“Nilfgaard approaches Jaskier, I suggest you go North.”

With that, she began walking into the main hall, leaving Jaskier facing a contingent of soldiers. He hung his head and turned away, walking out of the palace and trying desperately not to cry. 

He looked back at he could have sworn he saw a flash of white hair in one of the windows but it might have simply been his mind playing tricks on him. Damnnit. 

Jaskier was not utterly alone and he would go to Yennefer but she had explicitly told him and Geralt she was going on an expedition up North for the foreseeable future and not to contact her unless it was an emergency. And this was an emergency but...Well, he had last seen Geralt somewhere near Creyden. Fuck. Tears began to blur his vision as he walked through the Citran marketplace. He needed somewhere to go. Gods, he couldn’t go to Geralt like this, could he?

He made it to the forest just outside of Cintra before collapsing. His body shook with sobs and Jaskier punched the ground. Goddamn it. How had Calanthe drawn these conclusions? Who was this spy and why was this sabotage their goal? Fuck. He couldn’t think clearly there was a headache forming behind his eyes and his body felt both heavy and springy, coiled and weighed down. He had to get, he had to get away. 

Theoretically, Jaskier could go teach at Oxenfurt for the Winter. He already taught classes there regularly whenever he needed a break and the headmaster would be ecstatic to extend his contract. He had some friends on staff it would be nice to talk to. 

He shook his head, Jaskier knew where he should go. He was just too much of a coward to take that step himself. He had to go to Yspaden. He had to go to Kaer Morhen. Geralt and he had been having difficulties lately but Jaskier knew that he would allow him to stay. This had to be a larger sign from the universe that it was time to meet Geralt’s family. It had to be, otherwise, all this pain Jaskier was going through was for nothing. Damnnit. 

He stood up, brushing the dirt off his knees. Alright then, if he was to head to Yspaden before the frost set it and make his way up the mountain to Kaer Morhen, wherever it might be, he would need a horse first and foremost. Unfortunately, there was no Roach to carry him and Geralt around. 

It was difficult, wandering through Cintra once more in search of a horse, but Jaskire tried desperately not to look near the damn palace. He could feel the eyes of the guards on him so he haggled with a merchant quickly and left with a heavy fur cloak and a fully-outfitted white gelding. 

He walked the horse out of the city. The horse nudged him in the back and Jaskier stumbled a bit. He was a well-trained horse but seemed just a touch rude. Jaskier watched as the horse moved its back as if was, well, as if it was puffing up wings. He laughed and patted the horse’s head. 

“How do you like the name Pegasus?” 

The horse whinnied, “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jaskier said, getting onto the horse. 

The journey to Ysapaden wasn’t difficult but it was cold, both literally and metaphorically. Jaskier did not like being alone with his thoughts at the best of times and this was certainly not that. When he rode on the back of Roach with Geralt, as long as he kept his balance he had his hand free so he could mess around on the lute, but riding a horse alone he had no such luxuries. He had to stay focused on keeping Pegasus going in the right direction. 

Damnnit, if only Yennefer was here or if Jaskier had been a little braver and asked Geralt to stay ahead of time. Maybe it wouldn’t be this way. 

The town of Ysapaden was small and miserable. The people looked at him with a suspicious eye when he told them he was heading East up the mountains. They did not care for Witchers and Jaskier somehow knew none of his Geralt-based music would make him coin here. The snow this far north was already lightly blanketing the ground and soon it would snow the town in, making it impossible to head up into the mountains. He had to get to Kaer Morhen before then. 

Jaskier urged Pegasus up the mountain, the reticent gelding pushing forward with his coaxing. He could do this. Both of them. He had started off the day early, wanting to make the journey up the mountain in one day. The villagers had also told him what lurked in the woods after dark and Jaskier did not want to encounter any of those monsters. 

But despite his best efforts, the sun was setting and snow was falling and Kaer Morhen was nowhere to be seen. Jaskier had Pegasus slowly walking, cautious. He had his hand on his dagger, not that it would do him too much good. 

He heard a rustle in the branches. Pegasus stopped, Jaskier clucked and clenched his legs, trying to urge Pegasus forward but the horse refused to move. Then he saw it, a shadow in the trees. Jaskier froze, if he got off his horse surely the thing would jump at him. But if he stayed on his horse, he was vulnerable. He watched as it scuttled towards him and he felt ice crawl down his spine. It was a kikimore. It’s long limbs skittering across the ground and it’s move opening and closing, clicking together. 

It swiveled its head towards him and began to run and Jaskier tried to ready himself, to try and do something even if it wouldn’t make much of a difference and then a shape darted out of the trees and caught the kikimore in mid-air, throwing it to the ground in a mess of limbs. Pegasus started and almost bucked Jaskier off but he stayed on, holding the reins tight. 

It was Geralt. He had no sword but was here nonetheless, now standing across from the kikmore, looking at it with a predatory gaze. Jaskier felt a smile cross his lips. Thank every god above for Geralt.   
He had taken the beast off guard and it was limping. Geralt was able to make quick work of it, strangling the beast with his bare hands and ripping into it, clawing into its flesh. It was brutal. Then he turned to Jaskier. He wasn’t wearing a cloak but rather just a simple shirt and pants but he was covered head to toe in blood. It was just the kikimore’s blood either. This was only slightly fresh. As Jaskier looked over Geralt he noticed something more….feral about him. Geralt seemed to be standing a bit more crouched, a bit closer to the ground. His eyes seemed to glow brighter and were it just a trick of the pale light or were his teeth longer? 

“What are you doing here Jaskier?” Geralt sounded confused and walked over to Jaskier where he leaned down from his horse and pulled Geralt into a kiss. 

“I had nowhere else to go Geralt. Gods, I can’t talk about it but I needed to be here, I needed to be with you. I hoped you would take me in, and I know we haven’t talked about it, but I need to stay with you this Winter Geralt, I can’t be alone-”

Jaskier was rambling, he was worried and looking at it now they hadn’t discussed this, was he violating Geralt’s privacy-? Geralt cut off his thoughts. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask to come to stay for years Jas, I’m just...I’m just glad I was able to save you.”

Jaskier looked over at the kikimore corpse, “I think I must be extremely lucky today.”

Geralt nodded and grabbed the horse’s rein and began to lead them both forward, “You are very close to the keep, you likely would have made it yourself.”

Geralt then stopped and motioned for Jaskier to wait a minute before disappearing into the trees and coming back out with a deer carcass slung over his shoulders. Ah. That explains the animal blood. 

“Looks like I caught you hunting,” Jaskier said, and Geralt nodded.

“It’s my turn this week.”

Jaskier looked over the corpse and saw that there were no cuts of a sword but instead, it appeared the deer’s neck had been broken. Huh. Jaskier thought back to the kikimore, to Geralt ripping into it with his bare hands. It appeared he was seeing a new side to Geralt. 

“I’m excited to meet everyone.”

“I have mentioned you.”

“Hopefully only the nice things.”

Geralt scoffed and looked back at Jaskier, his eyes saying everything that needed to be said, “I like the horse.”

“His name is Pegasus.”

“Suits him.”

“He’s been great this whole journey, and I imagine this way, Roach can have a friend to hang out with.”

“I’m sure she will appreciate the company.”

Then they turned the corner and Jaksier got his first glance of Kaer Morhen. It was a massive fortress, all tall towers, and walls but the closer they got the more Jaskier noticed, most of the towers were crumbling and the walls were the only thing truly intact. This was a ruin. 

Warm lights radiated from the center of the structure and this is where they went, Jaskier dismounting and watching as Geralt hung the deer on meathooks in the courtyard. Pegasus was taken to a stable where Roach and few other horses were. 

“Follow me to the dining hall,” Geralt said, “You can meet the others.” 

Jaskier nodded, following just a step behind Geralt. He normally would be holding his hand but the massive amounts of blood on his partner stopped him. 

He walked in to see three men in the dining hall, spread out around the room while a roaring fire sat at the front of the space. 

One had a sharp widow’s peak and a broad smile. He seemed to be engaged in an argument with an older man with white hair but when Geralt walked in he stopped arguing and crowed at Geralt. 

This must be Lambert, Jaskier reasoned, based on the stories he had heard and the elder must be Vesemir. Jaskier straightened his back, wanting to make a good impression on the man who was more all intents and purposes Geralt’s father. 

The final man in the room was sharpening his sword and had medium-length brown hair parted down the middle, his bags sliding into his vision. The scars across his face stood out sharply and well, this must be Eskel. The man looked up and saw Geralt, a small smile crossing his face. But when he saw Jaskier his face paled and he stood up abruptly, dropping his sword with a clang. 

The metal on stone echoed throughout the room and Jaskier heard Eskel speak for the first time, his voice deep and metallic but sounding shocked beyond belief, “Julian?”

* * *

  
  


Yennefer looked around the ballroom with distaste. She has not planned on going back to court anytime soon yet here she was, in the middle of Temerian Court. As was expected of ladies of Temerian Court, Yennefer had her hair up and off her shoulders and she was wearing a peach-colored dress with long half-open sleeves. 

As her eyes surveyed the room for the person she was looking for, Yennefer kept her back straight and her aura aloof. The last thing she wanted was attention from the wrong sorts of nobles. It had been difficult enough to find her way into this little party without being loud enough Tissaia would come to find her again. 

Since Brouver Hogg’s strange questions a year ago, Yennefer had been searching for the location of Kaer Seren. It had been obliterated nearly a hundred years ago and since no records existed the only people who knew the location of the keep were the mages who destroyed it. This made it exceptionally difficult to find out information. Then, an off-handed comment from Geralt had led her to search in a new direction. 

Turns out, Witchers used to go to each other’s schools and compete against one-another. This means there might be someone still alive who remembers vaguely where the keep is. She was able to use a spell from the grimoire to help her find out who she was looking for. 

There was an enhancement that detected and tracked magics on people and all Yennefer had to do was search for magics that matched the ones on the grimoire. Anyone who would have visited the Griffin’s Keep would have residual magic from the wards. The more recent, the stronger the signal. When she had cast a spell over the map, there had been 7 little lights signaling people who had been exposed to the Griffin’s magic recently. Three of the lights were bright but the brightest of those was in Temeria, specifically the capital. 

This was how Yennefer found herself infiltrating court. Whoever had been to Kaer Seren recently was here. She brought out her blank parchment with the tracking spell on it and saw that it was leading her straight ahead. Yennefer looked up and knew immediately who she was looking for. 

Ahead of her, there was a woman with long brown hair in a complicated updo, the bottom half shaved off. She was wearing a red dress with golden accents on the hems. She laughed and nodded along with what the other nobles were doing but there was something very different about her. 

Yennefer could see the signs. Her laugh wasn’t genuine, the way she stood was a touch too wary and she kept glancing around the room. If she was a spy or some type of secret-witcher, she wasn’t particularly practiced. Yennefer made her way across the floor to better hear what the small group was talking about but as she approached, the woman peeled off from the group and began to leave the hall. 

Yennefer tried to subtly follow from behind but when she came out into the hall, it was empty. She slowly walked forward, cautious but felt the steel against her neck within seconds. 

“Why are you following me, mage?” The woman spat out. The voice sounded a touch familiar to Yennefer but she couldn’t place it. 

Yennefer held up her hands and spoke slowly, it would make sense somewhere connected to the Griffins would be wary of mages, “I mean no harm, I am trying to find Kaer Seren.”

The blade pushed against her skin tighter, “That sounds like harm to me.”

“Not as such,” Yennefer said, having difficulty trying to explain, “Someone I love, there is something wrong. I was given explicit instructions to search for Kaer Seren to help him.”

“How on earth could Kaer Seren help your friend?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

“And why should I believe you?”

Yennefer took a deep breath, “Because when you love someone, really love someone, you’ll take anything you can get.”

She heard a sigh and knife left her throat, “You can turn around now.”

Yennefer turned and gasped as she saw her attacker. It hadn’t been obvious from a distance but she recognized this woman. 

“Renfri of Creyden, the Shrike,” she said in amazement. Years ago, Yennefer had been visited by the Nightingale and the Shrike. She hadn’t thought about that in years, assuming both of them were long dead. 

Renfri smirked, her red lipstick looking a sharp change from the dirtied warrior Yennefer had last seen, “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“I remember you.”

“And I remember you, a lackey of Stregobor’s last I saw. Has anything changed?”

Yennefer scoffed, “I haven’t been in court in years. Left the broken system behind. I’m more a freelancer now.”

“I like you more now.”

“How do you know about Kaer Seren?” Yennefer asked. As far as she knew, Renfri, outside of getting killed, had never been connected to any Witchers. Outside of getting killed. Oh lords. Geralt. She had been so caught up in trying to figure out Brouver Hogg’s request that she forgot. Renfri was Geralt’s greatest mistake. She knew he still carried Renfri’s death quite heavily, but now Yennefer knew Geralt was alive. She would have to tell him. 

Renfri had begun speaking, “I live there.”

Yennefer was confused, “What do you mean you live there, it’s been destroyed for nearly a hundred years.”

“I cleaned it up, it was his home, I only thought it fitting to clean it up and make it livable again.”

“Who’s he?”

Renfri looked around, “This isn’t a conversation to have here, do you have somewhere you can portal us away from prying eyes?”

Yennefer nodded, “Do you have any supplies you need?”

Renfri shook her head, “I already slipped the poison necessary in the noble’s drink. I should be leaving soon.”

“An assassin for hire,” Yennefer said, opening a portal, “I should have known.”

They appeared in Yennefer’s study and Renfri began to look around at once, making note of the exits and windows. 

“It’s something to pass the time.”

“I can see that, now who is the he you referred to?”

Renfri sat in a chair and looked over Yennefer’s many books, “That’s Nightingale. It should be a secret but he’s been dead for years and you are already on the trail of Kaer Seren. I doubt he would mind a few people knowing where he was from now.”

“Nightingale….” Yennefer trailed off. There was something here. Brouver Hogg tells her to go to Kaer Seren to find out about Jaskier’s past, she finds a woman who lives there. That woman is Renfri, Geralt’s greatest mistake, back from the dead. She says she lives in Kaer Seren, the former home of Nightingale. This was no coincidence. If only she could see the larger picture. There was a connection between Jaskier and Nightingale. 

Witchers were sterile but even with mages sterility wasn’t an absolute. Could the Nightingale somehow be Jaskier’s father? The timelines could match up. Damnnit. 

Renfri must have noticed her silence because she spoke up, “How exactly, is this news helping your partner?”

Yennefer began to pace across the floor. How on earth was Jaskier connected to Kaer Seren?

“How long have you been living in Kaer Seren?”

“Almost three years.”

“Did Nightingale have anyone else in his life, any family? And brothers? Human ones?”

Renfri shook her head, “I was all he had, and I’m not enjoying this line of questioning. I’ve been humoring you but this doesn’t seem like any way to help anyone.”

Yennefer ran her hands down her dress. Not Jaskier’s father. It’s unlikely Renfri wouldn’t have known something. Perhaps….but no. That’s impossible that doesn’t make sense. She pushes her hands through her hair as Renfri looks on, confused. It wouldn’t make any sense. She would have known, Geralt would certainly know, right? She thinks back to meeting Nightingale but she can’t remember anything about him. He was wearing head to toe armor. Was his voice familiar? She shakes her head, she can’t imagine it. 

You can’t hide this sort of thing. If Jaskier was somehow...well if this was his past then they would certainly all know. Right? This couldn’t remain a secret. How had no one recognized him? How had he become a bard, gone to Oxenfurt. Jaskier had a life, had a background. He couldn’t be in hiding, he couldn’t be lying. 

She stopped moving, “What was Nightingale’s name? His real name?”

Renfri looks over, struggling with what to say, “I supposed,” she starts, hesitant, “Since he’s dead now it won’t cause any real harm. And you seem worried. A terrifying kind of worry.”

Yennefer is looking over at Renfri, both anticipating and terrified of what she will say next. 

“His name was Julian Pankratz.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Yennefer content this time around. I have been so busy with school and work that this chapter was really hard to write. But everyday, I would get new comments in my inbox and it would remind me that this is worth continuing, worth reading. Honestly, without everyone's encouragement and enjoyment of this story I really wouldn't be writing. Sometimes its hard to stay passionate in a project when you already have so much going on, but hearing what people like about the story, why they enjoy it? It fuels my writings. Thank you so much to all the readers/commenters/kudoers, you all keep me going!!
> 
> I left it off in Chapter 5 in 1225 when Julian adopts Renfri so picking up from there: 
> 
> 1227 - Renfri is 14 and meets Deidre  
> 1229 - Renfri and Julian go back to Kaer Seren to hunt down Stregobor, they follow him across the continent to Mount Gorgon where Julian is "killed" (Captured by Stregobor)  
> 1231 - Renfri gathers a band of thieves to try and kill Stregobor but instead encounters Geralt of Rivia  
> 1238 - Julian manages to escape Stregobor after having his Witcher nature stripped from him but loses his memories and becomes Jaskier. He heads to Oxenfurt and fakes his way into the University.  
> 1239 - Deidre arrives in the Korath desert, begging the Zerrikanians for help to save Renfri  
> 1240 - Jaskier heads to Posada and meets Geralt of Rivia (Deidre is in training with Zerrikanian Mages)  
> 1245 - Geralt takes a contract in Vizima and Jaskier saves his life  
> 1249 - Jaskier and Geralt attend a banquet in Cintra, Geralt finds himself running away from destiny while Jaskier takes on a new one  
> 1249 - Deidre completes her training, giving half of her soul to Renfri to bring her back from the brink of death  
> 1253 - Jaskier winters at Cintra and tells the story of the Wolf Princess to Ciri, he is close friends with Duny and Pavetta  
> 1254 - Jaskier enters a bardic competition and confesses his love to Geralt  
> 1256 - Geralt and Jaskier finds themselves needing help in Rinde and meet Yennefer, Jaskier finds out Pavetta and Duny are dead  
> 1256 - Renfri and Deidre return to Kaer Seren and begin to rebuild it  
> 1256 - Pavetta and Duny's funeral  
> 1258 - Geralt goes on a hunt for a Griffin and the three of them meet up with Yennefer  
> 1258 - Eskel and Deidre reunite and decide to travel on the path together for a time, Renfri decides to become an assassin and go to court  
> 1260 - Mahakam Ale Festival  
> 1261 - Jaskier is banished from Cintra and Ciri's life  
> 1261 - Jaskier goes to Kaer Morhen and Eskel recognizes him  
> 1261 - Yennefer tracks down Renfri who reveals who Julian is


End file.
